HOLY MOLY GUYS
HOLY MOLY GUYS
Birds and Fish
★Pairing:
Pro Hero! And soon to be ex Husband!Keigo Takami x Pro Hero!Still legal Wife!Reader
Synopsis: It's Valentines Day and your estranged husband shows up to your apartment to... take you out?
Warning: Extreme angst and fluff, suggestive themes, drinking, heartbreak, mutual pinning, touching and kissing, bad mental health, broken vases, broken dishes, preditor and prey, teasing, not really unfrequented love, heartbreak, hoping, depression, intimacy.
Wc: long, No ageless blogs! MDNI!!!
More info at the end. Use song: Of Monsters And Men - Little Talks
Slight spoiler: I wrote the flashback two different ways to represent how our brains twist painful memories.
This is the 3rd installment of my Valentines day series.
(Check my mha master list for more characters.)
Taglist from both of my master lists because I need to feed the cats: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, @the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r, @icey-wonders, @adherethecomingofage, @karaartioli-blog, @meoweoeoeosme, @faithisxreading, @faithisidking, @oh-kayyy-stan-bts, @shortie-chocolate, @rosaline756. @sweetlike-sugarplum. @aespie, @dancingqueen276, @erensbbg, @lillizxzz, @1chaerry,
@valscodblog, @willnetries
The morning is cold, but Keigo barely feels it as he stands outside your condo, wings tucked tight against his back, fingers flexing at his sides. He’s been here for ten minutes already, gathering his courage, trying to find the right words, the right tone. Something easy, something smooth, something that won’t make you him out of your head.
He raps his knuckles against the door, but it isn’t you who answers.
"Sorry birdie," Rumi drawls, leaning against the frame like she’s been expecting him all day. Her ears flick lazily before she leans aside just enough to let him see inside.
"Kitty cat doesn’t want to play today."
Keigo opens his mouth to argue, but the twitch of her ears is all the warning he gets before she sidesteps, and a vase comes flying straight for his face.
Glass explodes against the doorframe as he dodges, shards embedding themselves in the wood and skittering across the ground. He exhales slowly, resisting the urge to shake out his wings, and instead, he just tilts his head toward the room beyond.
"That any way to treat an old friend, sweetheart?"
His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—
Something raw, something desperate.
He sees the flick of your tail's shadow before he sees you, a lazy sway from where you’re perched on the arm of your couch, one leg crossed over the other. You’ve got your claws out, the tips of your nails clicking idly against the glass of another— intact —vase on the side table.
Your pupils are blown, slitted eyes reflecting the light in that eerily beautiful way that always makes his breath catch. Smoke curls from your lips, disappearing into the dim lighting.
Rumi huffs, stepping back inside. "I’m not cleaning that up."
"Don’t have to," you reply smoothly, voice like silk dragged over velvet. Your lashes flutter as you finally, finally turn your gaze to him.
"Keigo will do it, won’t you, baby?"
That shouldn’t do as much to him as it does. He knows you’re being cruel—playing with him the way you always have, even before everything went to hell. But his fingers still twitch at his sides, still aching to reach for you.
"Anything for you, dove."
His voice is softer now, almost a whisper.
Rumi looks between the two of you and groans. "Alright, I’m out. But if you kill him, I’m not helping you hide the body." She grabs her purse and coat before leaving out the door, white trainers making crunchy noises against the floor.
Rude , she’d have helped you hide any other body.
You hum noncommittally as she heads for the elevator. The second it shuts, the air between you thickens.
Keigo takes a step forward, and you don’t move—don’t stiffen, don’t react, just keep watching him with those unblinking, inhumanly sharp eyes. He has to remind himself to breathe.
"Can we talk?"
A beat of silence. Then, you lift your chin slightly, lashes lowering.
"Inside."
He barely hears the words over the sound of his own heartbeat. But he follows you in without hesitation.
Your condo is nothing like the home you once shared with Keigo. It’s clinical, sleek, too neat. There’s no clutter, no misplaced shoes by the door, no feathers caught between couch cushions.
No warmth.
The air inside is still, save for the faint scent of something citrusy and sharp—one of the only things that covers the trace of venom in your breath. The furniture is modern, leather and glass, not a single soft edge in sight.
Even the throw pillows on the couch are pristine, arranged just so. Keigo’s eyes flick to the sink, the pipes lined with that special metal finish to prevent your venom from eating through them, the custom silverware drying in a dish rack, a reminder of all the precautions you have to take just to exist in the same space as other people.
But there aren’t any other people here. Just you. Just him.
You saunter toward the bar cart in the corner, tail flicking as you reach for a bottle, pouring yourself a drink with slow, deliberate movements. You don’t offer him one.
Keigo watches, silent for once. He’s been in too many rooms like this. He knows the signs. You haven’t made this place a home—you’ve made it a hideout. A place to exist, not to live. And that realization makes something inside him twist so violently he has to clench his fists to keep from reaching for you.
"You gonna speak, or just stand there lookin' pretty?"
Your voice is a purr, lazy, amused. But he knows you too well. That’s just how you hide the venom.
He swallows, stepping further inside, ignoring the broken glass from your little greeting still scattered near the door.
"What happened to us?"
You sigh dramatically, swirling the liquid in your glass.
"We got divorced, birdie. Try to keep up."
"That’s not an answer."
"Sure it is."
You finally turn to face him fully, your tail curling loosely around your leg, those slit pupils of yours narrowing as they catch the light. Your gaze flicks to the faint cuts on his hands from the glass, and Keigo thinks—hopes—for a second that you might care. But then you take another slow sip, and whatever softness he thought he saw disappears.
"You think I don’t know what you’re doing?" His voice is quieter now, rougher. Your lips curl slightly.
"Enlighten me."
"You’re trying to make me hate you."
You don’t react. Not at first. But he sees the way your fingers tighten around the glass, the way your ears twitch, betraying you.
"Is it working?" you murmur.
Keigo exhales sharply, shaking his head.
"No."
You click your tongue, setting your drink down on the bar cart with a little more force than necessary.
"Shame."
There’s a long pause, tension stretched between you so tight it might snap at any second. Then, finally, you lean back against the cart, crossing your arms over your chest, nails tapping idly against the fabric of your sleeve.
"Why are you here, Keigo?"
"You know why."
"You should be getting ready for your fancy gala, smiling for the cameras, being Japan’s golden boy."
"Not in the mood."
You hum, tilting your head. "They’ll notice you’re gone."
"Let them."
That catches you off guard. He sees it in the flicker of surprise that crosses your face, quick as a heartbeat before it’s buried under something unreadable. You exhale, reaching up to push your hair back.
"You make everything so difficult."
Keigo steps closer.
"And you make everything so damn lonely."
That—finally—makes you falter. Just a little.
But it’s enough.
"Why, love?" His voice is softer now, breaking at the edges.
"Why’d you really leave?"
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Because he deserves the truth, doesn’t he? After everything, after all the years spent in each other’s arms, in each other’s shadows.
But the truth is ugly. And you’ve never been the type to hand Keigo something he can’t handle. Even now, after everything, after you left.
So instead, you force a smirk, stepping forward to slide your fingers under the knot of his tie, tugging him just close enough to feel the heat of your breath against his lips.
"I left," you whisper, "Because I knew you’d chase me."
Keigo’s breath stutters. His hands twitch.
And then you let go, stepping back, putting a wall between you again.
"Now," you sigh, picking up your drink, "If you’re done being sentimental, you can see yourself out."
But Keigo doesn’t move.
Doesn’t turn, doesn’t back away.
Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small. Something velvet. Something with your name on it.
Your breath catches.
His voice is barely a whisper.
"Not without an answer."
The morning light filters through the sheer curtains as you pull them back, casting a pale glow across the pristine walls of your condo. The city hums softly beyond the glass, an orchestra of distant sirens and traffic, a constant reminder that the world moves on regardless of your choices.
You lift your glass to your lips, savoring the last bitter sip before setting it down with a deliberate click. Behind you, Keigo still stands in the center of the room, that damn velvet box in his hands.
Your fingers twitch, but you don’t reach for it. Not yet.
Instead, you exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders as you stare out over the skyline. Being a Pro Hero should mean something, but for you, it’s always been more of a balancing act.
The media has never truly trusted you—not with the kind of power you wield, not with a quirk as inherently dangerous as yours. You’ve spent your career fighting for a place at the table, only to be met with suspicion. The public adores their heroes, but they only ever tolerate you.
And now, post-separation, they don’t even do that.
The headlines were merciless when the news first broke.
Pro Heroes Hawks and Nightfang’s scandalous divorce.
'Nightfang’s betrayal.'
Every news outlet framed you as the villain, the gold digger, the attention seeker. They spewed theories, spun tales of infidelity or deceit, but none of them knew the truth. Not a single one of them understood the slow unraveling of something that once felt indestructible.
And Keigo—damn him—never defended himself.
Only you.
He stood in front of cameras and brushed off questions with a shrug, a lazy smile, a tilt of his head. He called you an incredible woman. He said he would always support you. He told the world that love is complicated, but that you weren’t the villain in this story.
But when the cameras were off, when the interviews ended, when he came home to an empty penthouse that still carried the ghost of your laughter, Keigo had to face the truth.
You weren’t coming back.
Legally, the two of you are still married. You filed for divorce, but he never signed the papers. He refuses. You’ve been separated for a year now, and once the two-year mark hits, you’ll be dragging him back to court to finalize it whether he likes it or not. That’s the plan. But Keigo—stubborn, maddening, infuriating Keigo—isn’t going to let you go so easily.
He tried. At first.
But then Endeavor and Touya got involved. And when two of the most emotionally constipated men in Japan actually agreed on something for once, Keigo started listening.
“You’re insane if you think you’ll ever find something like that again,” Touya had scoffed, tossing a cigarette off the balcony of Keigo’s penthouse. “You’ve had the real thing, and you’re just gonna let her walk? That’s weak.”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” Endeavor had muttered, arms crossed.
“You’re a hero, but you’re still a man. Fight for her.”
So Keigo fought.
He scared off every court-mandated counselor assigned to help mediate the separation. He dodged meetings, refused legal summons, and ensured that nothing about his life changed.
Your clothes were still in the closet. Your favorite mug is still sitting by the coffee machine. Hell, your toothbrush—your damn toothbrush—remains untouched in the holder beside his.
And yet, the scent of you is gone.
Late at night, when sleep refused to come, he would reach for your pillow, hoping for something— anything —that still carried your warmth. But it was just fabric. Cold. Empty. The absence of you felt like a weight in his chest, like hunger gnawing at his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t fade.
It terrified him, that feeling.
Because it wasn’t just loneliness.
It was abandonment.
Keigo swallows hard, shaking himself from his thoughts as you finally turn, your gaze landing on the small velvet box in his hands. Your expression remains unreadable, but he catches the flicker of something in your eyes—recognition, hesitation, something softer before it’s buried beneath layers of indifference.
"You kept them." Your voice is quiet, but not surprised.
"Of course I did." His grip tightens slightly. "What did you think? That I’d toss them like some old trinket?"
You say nothing.
He steps closer, the distance between you shrinking.
"Open it."
You don’t move.
Keigo exhales sharply, bringing the box to his own hands, flicking it open with his thumb. Inside, nestled against the plush lining, are the rings—your rings. Your wedding band, sleek and elegant, gleams under the morning light. And beside it, his own.
Unworn, untouched. Still yours.
"Tell me," his voice drops, rough and raw,
"Do you still want this to be over?"
You look at him—the man you came to love so deeply, so wholly, that it still aches in places you thought had long gone numb. Keigo Takami. Hawks. The man who once had nothing, just a lonely kid with clipped wings, and somehow, against all odds, became your everything.
Your fingers tighten around the wine glass in your hands, not from anger, but from the weight of the memories pressing against your chest.
You remember it all so vividly—your wedding, if you could even call it that. No grand venue, no media coverage, no designer gowns or custom tuxedos. Just you, in a t-shirt and jeans, standing beside him in the city hall courthouse. Your closest friends, your grandfather, and a love so real it felt like the very foundation of the life you were building together. Back before the multimillion-dollar contracts, before either of you were B-list celebrities—hell, even before you were D-list heroes.
People had called you foolish. They’d whispered that it wouldn’t last, that Keigo would leave you someday.
Find someone younger, someone prettier, someone who wasn’t… you.
But Keigo never strayed. Never looked at another woman the way he looked at you.
Not once.
You knew the kind of childhood he had survived, the scars buried beneath his charm, the silent desperation in the way he clung to you when nightmares crept in. You were his family. And he was yours.
Maybe that’s why this hurts so much.
Because when the rest of the world turned its back on you, when the media vilified you, when complete strangers condemned you, Keigo had always been your safe place.
And now?
Now you were each other’s greatest source of pain.
At least there were no kids to get lost in this mess. No innocent lives tangled in the wreckage of what the two of you had built and lost. Just two people, bound by love and tragedy, trying to navigate the wreckage without losing themselves in the process.
And yet, even now, late at night, you still hear him.
That warm hum, soft as a whisper, waking you from the edge of sleep. It takes a moment before you recognize it—his voice, murmuring wedding vows in the quiet. The same ones he spoke to you five years ago in that tiny courthouse, when the only thing you had to your names was each other.
"I don’t have much, but everything I am, everything I have, it’s yours. It always will be."
Keigo has offered a vow renewal more times than you can count. And every time, you refuse. He doesn’t understand.
He thinks you deserve more, that he didn’t do right by you back then. That now, with money, status, and power, he can finally give you something extravagant—something worthy of you. But that courthouse wedding? That day, five years ago? It was perfect.
You’ve told him that before.
And Keigo, with that quiet, unreadable stare, had only shaken his head and whispered, “That was the bare minimum.”
He doesn’t get it.
And moments like this—when he stands in front of you, ring box in hand, eyes pleading even when he doesn’t say a word—it’s so damn hard to be mad at him.
Because Keigo Takami, for all his recklessness, for all his stubbornness, has never once stopped loving you.
The rings clink softly against the table, the weight of them heavier than it should be. Your sigh feels like it’s been building in your chest for years, clawing its way up your throat, but when it finally escapes, it doesn’t bring relief. It just leaves you empty.
You rub your face, fingertips pressing into your temples, before retreating into the corner like you always do when you’re overwhelmed. The space feels too small, too tight, but the pressure grounds you. Keigo shifts in your periphery, body tensing like he’s about to reach for you, and you know that if he gets too close, you’ll break.
Your mouth fills with saliva, hot and acrid, your body rejecting the wine and venom swirling in your stomach. Before Keigo can take another step, you bolt, vaulting over the table, sprinting to the kitchen sink just in time.
Everything comes up in sharp, burning waves—wine, acid, poison—and you grip the edges of the sink, gasping between shuddering breaths. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Keigo is there, gathering your hair into his hands, his fingers gentle against your scalp.
The silk press you got last week—because you didn’t have the energy to deal with your hair, because life has felt so heavy—slides smooth between his fingers. He holds it back carefully, rubbing your back in slow, familiar circles, keeping his touch light like he knows any more might send you over the edge.
He doesn’t say anything when you try to push him away, just turns on the water and helps you rinse your mouth. The sink is steaming, curling around your face like fog, and when you spit again, the heat clings to your skin. Your body feels drained, exhausted down to your bones, but Keigo stays close, watching you carefully.
You can see the concern in the way his eyes flicker over your frame, the way his jaw clenches. You know you look bad. You feel worse. The dark circles under your eyes are deeper than usual, your limbs too thin, your clothes hanging looser than they should.
And then his gaze shifts—past you, past the sink—to the countertop.
To the empty bottles.
You don’t even like wine like that.
Keigo’s expression doesn’t change, but you can feel something inside him shift.
He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. He just hands you a cup of water, watching like a hawk as you take small sips, as you swallow down the Tylenol he places in your palm. Then, without a word, he starts emptying the bottles. One by one, he pours them down the drain, his movements sharp, controlled. You don’t try to stop him.
You just watch.
When he’s done, he tosses the bottles into the trash with finality, dusting his hands off before turning to you. His shoulders drop, just slightly, before he nods to the kitchen table.
“Sit,” he murmurs.
You hesitate, but your body is too tired to fight him.
The smell hits you first—warm, savory, familiar. A bowl of noodles, steam curling from the surface, two soft-boiled eggs nestled in the broth. Light spice, mild enough for your stomach. Next to it, a glass of green tea.
Your favorite.
Keigo slides into the chair across from you, setting his own bowl down. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push—just eats with you, slow and steady, letting the weight of his presence do all the talking.
The food smells too good to ignore. And you don’t want to be alone right now.
So you eat.
He watches, not too obviously, but you can feel it. The tension in his shoulders eases when you take another bite, and by the time your bowl is empty, your eyelids are heavier, your body slumping against the chair.
You don’t protest when he leads you to the couch, wrapping you in soft blankets from God knows where. He pulls you against his chest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him.
Your couch is too hard, because you never bothered making this place comfortable. Most nights, you sleep on the hardwood floor because it’s easier than trying to rest in a bed that doesn’t have him in it.
Maybe you got married too young. Your frontal lobes weren’t even fully developed yet.
Or maybe this was always bound to happen.
You already know how this will go.
Keigo will stay until you make him leave. He’ll linger for a few days, maybe a few weeks, before finally stepping back. Then the gifts will start showing up at your door—never at your agency anymore, at least he learned that much.
And then, eventually, he’ll come back.
And when he does, you’ll scream as you push him away. Because his feathers will be scattered across your apartment, lingering on the floor, stuck to your clothes, hidden in the creases of your couch.
And no matter how much you tell yourself to, you won’t have the heart to throw them out.
Because you still love him.
“Hm.”
Your laugh is barely more than a breath, but it still surprises you. It rumbles against Keigo’s chest, and you feel the way he tenses beneath you, like he’s trying to commit the sound to memory.
When he glances down at you, you tell him it’s because noodles and green tea were all you guys could afford back then, before the fame, before the headlines, before everything got so complicated.
Keigo nods, his lips pressing into a firm line, but there’s something in his eyes—something distant, something almost mournful. “The food act you started is doing really well,” he says after a moment, his voice steady. “Lots of donations are coming in. People are getting at least two hot meals a day.”
You smile, a small, fleeting thing.
Of course, Keigo made sure of it. Whatever you wanted to do, he always fronted the money, always stepped in as the face of it. Not because he wanted credit, but because people were more willing to listen to him than a woman who looked like you.
You don’t even need to say it out loud. He already knows.
A snake.
That’s what they called you.
Strange, considering the soft curve of your cat-like ears atop your head, the way your tail flicks when you’re irritated, the sharp, clawed nails you keep polished and neat. Maybe it’s your eyes, slitted and gold lined, too predatory for their liking.
Maybe it’s your teeth, sharp enough to tear through flesh, or the venom you can spit through the gaps between them, burning hot as it hisses against the air.
Or maybe it’s just because they needed an easy way to hate you.
Whatever. You don’t care anymore.
You’re just so tired.
Waking up has been hard. Brushing your teeth feels like a chore. Standing too fast makes your head spin.
Maybe it’s just too many bad days, piled on top of each other, weighing you down.
Or maybe it’s something else.
It’s weird—the way you’ve started signing Keigo’s last name again without thinking. You mean to use your maiden name when handling business, but the moment the pen touches paper, it’s his that spills out in ink.
Because it doesn’t feel like your name anymore.
Not after the media found out about your marriage.
Not after they twisted it, stripped you of any identity outside of him.
It became his name. And you?
You weren’t even a partial owner.
You sigh, pressing your forehead against his collarbone, letting yourself drift for just a moment. You and Keigo go way back—back before the tabloids, back before the industry swallowed him whole, back when you had braids and he hadn’t yet fallen into the machine that chewed him up and spit him out as Hawks.
Back when it was just you and him, sitting on the floor of your first apartment, no furniture, barely making rent, sharing instant noodles and laughing like the world wasn’t out to break you.
Keigo sits up a little, his arms still around you but tense now, his golden eyes locked onto your face, searching for something.
Anything.
“Can I ask you something?”
You don’t respond immediately. Your gaze is fixed on the silver screen, but you’re not really watching anymore. The cartoon you grew up on plays like white noise in the background, a relic of a simpler time—back when the only thing you had to worry about was making ends meet, back when it was just you and him against the world.
Back before the lights got too bright. Before the whispers got too loud.
Before loving each other started to hurt.
You understand why he doesn’t want to go back to that apartment, why he hates the memories in those old walls. You do, but at the same time, you don’t. Because back then, you had each other. More than you do now, more than when you both became names with too much weight to carry.
Before the cameras, before the meetings and hushed conversations about his image with you. Before your interviews turned sharp-edged, laced with bitterness neither of you knew how to swallow.
Before there were meetings about your marriage. Before your image turned sour.
You know why he works so hard to give you a soft life, but you refuse his money, refuse to go half on anything. You both got married without a prenup, so as far as you’re concerned, he can keep his things, and you’ll keep yours.
But Keigo is a selfish man.
He wants everything.
Not the house, not the cars—those are just things, and he’s never cared much for things.
He wants you .
Not as a trophy wife, not as a possession, but as the one person who’s ever really seen him in a room full of people. The one who showed him what his heart was worth. And even though yours is torn to shreds, even though you’ve spent so long pushing him away, he wants to be there with a sewing kit and new fabric, trying to stitch you back together, piece by piece.
"Would you run away with me?"
Your head turns slowly, eyes meeting his. "Run away to where? America? Some place where they don’t know my face or name?" Your voice is flat, tired. "You’d never be able to leave, Keigo. You have a duty here."
Keigo takes a deep, almost steady breath, eyes flickering with something unreadable before he clarifies.
"Run away with me for today. For Valentine’s Day. "
Your playful smile vanishes. You frown, turning back toward the screen.
"I hate when you joke like that."
"It’s not a joke."
The way he spits it—low, urgent—makes something in your chest ache.
He isn’t talking about some grand escape. He isn’t asking you to drop everything, to disappear with him to some foreign country, to run from the weight of your names.
He’s asking for today.
One day where there are no cameras, no expectations, no headlines.
Just you and him, like it used to be.
"It’s not a joke," he repeats, softer this time.
"You can't breathe air into my lungs if I don't want it, Keigo."
"Then I'll be a vacuum cleaner and press reverse."
"There you go again—forcing me into what you think is best for me."
"Please, just come home."
"I'd rather be in hell than alone."
You haven't been back since the night you left. You packed a suitcase with the same clothes you arrived with, taking nothing more than your hero costume.
And now you were gone.
It killed Keigo to come home and see the place torn apart, to live in the wreckage of everything you left behind. For a while, he did. That’s why he moved into the penthouse—because the house, as beautiful as it was, hurt too much.
Acres of land, a guarded estate, a quiet escape in the countryside—it was supposed to be a dream. Now, it’s just a memory.
But that night stays with him. The night you begged— fucking begged —him, his wife, who should never have had to beg for anything in her life. And yet, you did. Standing there in your designer black dress, glittering under the dim lights, mascara running like an unchecked faucet, pooling at the base of your throat as if your own tears were branding you, drowning out your voice.
Begging him to stay. To choose you over the public. Because you needed him.
And he didn’t.
—————
Keigo doesn’t notice the way your hands start to shake as the commotion around you grows louder. He doesn’t notice how the weight of the room feels like it’s pressing into your skull, the voices, the shuffling, the endless chatter about the schedule and the press and the fucking charity event drowning you like a tidal wave.
He doesn’t notice the way you break.
Not at first.
You're already on your knees, sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor in your black designer gown, the shimmer of it making the streaks of makeup down your cheeks look even darker. Your chest is rising and falling too quickly, your breathing uneven, like the oxygen in the room is running out. Your nails are digging into the fabric around your arms, and you’re begging him, voice hoarse from holding everything in for years.
"Please."
That’s all you can manage at first. You don’t know what else to say, how else to convince him, how else to make him see you.
"Please don’t go."
Keigo exhales slowly, standing tall in his gilded tux, his hands adjusting the cuffs like he’s getting ready for war, and in a way, he is. The hero industry is a battlefield, and he’s always been a soldier. Always been good at following orders, at knowing when and where to strike, when to play the game.
You’re not part of the game.
You never were.
"You know I can’t just not go," he says, like he’s trying to be reasonable, like this is an explanation instead of an excuse. "This event is important."
You let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
Important.
"What about me ?" you whisper, gripping your dress tighter.
His jaw tightens. "Don’t do that."
"Do what , Keigo?"
He sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck, his wings fluttering once in irritation. The movement sends a loose feather drifting to the floor between you, and you hate how that simple sight makes something in your chest ache .
" This ," he gestures at you vaguely. "Acting like I don’t—"
"Like you don’t what ?" You cut him off, eyes locking onto his. "See me? Hear me? Like you haven’t left me behind over and over again?"
He stiffens at that.
"You always have somewhere else to be, Keigo," you whisper, your hands releasing your dress to clutch at your chest instead, like you can physically hold yourself together.
"Always someone else to be with. Always something more important than me."
"That's not fair," he snaps. "You know that’s not true."
"Do I?" Your voice cracks, and you shake your head, laughing wetly, eyes burning. " Tell me , Keigo—when was the last time you chose me ?" He looks at you, but he doesn’t say anything. Not even one word.
Because he knows.
He fucking knows .
And for not the first time tonight, you feel empty.
Because what’s the point of screaming at a wall? What’s the point of pouring your heart out into hands that are too full to hold it?
Your voice is quieter now. Depleted.
"I’m done."
That makes his entire body tense, golden eyes snapping to yours, lips parting slightly in disbelief.
"What?"
"I don’t wanna fight anymore." You sniff hard, wiping your eyes, smearing the mess on your face further.
"I just wanted love and comfort. That’s it."
Keigo moves forward, like he’s about to kneel in front of you, but before he can, there’s a loud knock on the door, followed by frantic voices calling his name.
They need him.
You don’t say anything. You don’t move. He hesitates, but only for a second. Then he sighs, leans down, and presses a quick kiss to your ruined cheek.
"We’ll talk about this when I get home, okay?"
Your breath catches in your throat.
And just like that, he’s gone.
The door closes behind him, and the noise follows, his footsteps fading down the hall as the staff and managers rush after him.
You don’t move.
You just sit there, staring at the empty space he left behind, blinking slowly as another hot tear slips past your lashes, burning as it carves a path down your cheek. It drips from your chin, landing against the fabric of your dress. And in the silence of the house you once called home , you whisper,
"I need you."
But he’s already gone.
You don’t move at first when you hear all the cars drive away.
Because your mental state was just that bad —so bad that the thought of standing under a thousand flashing lights, surrounded by cameras and whispers, made your stomach turn. Because you knew how it would go. You’d smile, pose, play the part, and by morning, they’d have spun some new evil story about you. As if you craved attention so desperately that you needed everyone’s eyes on you—even at a charity ball.
And Keigo stood there, dressed in gold, the picture of perfection, while the staff bustled around you, stepping over your crumpled form on the floor of your own home. As if you weren’t there. As if you were just a nuisance, inconveniencing a man who had far better things to do.
Honestly, what did he ever see in you?
The rumors never stopped. That he must have been tricked, roped into this marriage. That Hawks, the patron saint of the hero world, hadn’t just cleaned up the streets—he’d done an act of charity by taking in a disaster of a woman like you.
And maybe, tonight, he believed it.
He dismissed the staff. His managers. But it was too late.
The damage was already done.
He tried to explain earlier. Tried to tell you why he couldn’t just not go. That you needed to pull yourself together. And that’s when something inside you snapped.
"I’ve been pulling myself together for you for seven years, Keigo. Seven."
From the very beginning, people told you that you’d never measure up. That you needed to hold on tight to him before he came to his senses. And now, standing in the middle of this too big, too cold house, you finally hit your breaking point.
You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. The world spun too fast, too violently, and he—he couldn’t even take a moment to comfort you?
Really?
He’d rather stand there and watch you unravel?
The two of you were screaming now, voices ricocheting off the high ceilings. But you weren’t even angry anymore. Not really.
"I don’t want to fight, Keigo. I just wanted love. I just wanted comfort."
His phone wouldn’t stop ringing. People were banging on the door, reminding him that he needed to go. And you—you just stood there. Silent. Watching.
"We’ll talk about this when I get home," he told you, pressing a kiss to your tear-streaked cheek before walking out the bedroom door.
And you let him go.
The moment the door clicked shut, a single, burning tear slipped down your cheek, curving along your jaw as you whispered, "I need you."
But there was no one left to hear it.
The house was empty. Silent.
No one called. No one checked in—except Rumi and Taishiro, asking where you were, saying Keigo mentioned you weren’t feeling well.
Oh.
So that’s what he told them?
The ring on your finger feels heavier than it ever has.
The same ring he slipped onto your finger with that cocky, love-drunk grin, promising you forever. The same ring he kissed every morning before slipping out the door, murmuring, see you later, babe . The same ring that sat between your fingers as you traced the grooves absentmindedly, convincing yourself that he was worth waiting for.
Now, all you can think about is how much you regret ever putting it on.
Because what did it mean ?
Nothing.
It was just another thing in your life that Keigo Takami had made you believe was sacred—only for him to turn around and treat it like an afterthought.
Defends you to the death one moment but can’t even put the world on hold for you the next.
Talk about mixed fucking signals.
Even the lights in your bedroom feel too bright, burning into your retinas as if the whole house is mocking you, exposing you, watching you break apart piece by piece. You stumble toward the bathroom, desperate for a moment to breathe, to clear your face, to wipe away the evidence of how thoroughly you’ve lost .
But then you make the mistake of looking into the mirror.
And you don’t even recognize yourself.
The woman staring back at you is a ghost, her makeup smeared down her cheeks like war paint, her lips trembling with unshed rage and despair. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks raw from the heat of her tears.
Smoke curls from her lips with every breath.
You open your mouth, and your venom pools there, thick and acrid, sliding over your tongue like a warning. You could spit it into the sink, watch it swirl down the drain like all the other things you’ve had to swallow in this marriage.
But why should you?
What’s the point of restraint? What’s the point of trying to be good ?
Keigo abandoned you tonight. Just like he always does.
So instead of spitting into the sink, you turn and head straight for the bed.
One spit-take is all it takes to watch the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets dissolve into nothing.
Oh.
That feels good.
Something clicks into place inside you, something sharp and reckless and angry.
Your fingers curl into tight fists as you storm through your walk-in closet, scanning the racks and shelves until your eyes land on something perfect.
An old baseball bat.
The weight of it feels right in your hands, the smooth grip grounding you.
And then you swing.
The bedroom window shatters on impact, the sound ringing through the house, glass raining onto the floor like diamonds. You turn on your heel and move to the next target—the kitchen cabinets, the overpriced mahogany that Keigo’s designer picked out. You slam the bat into them again and again, the wood splintering, the doors hanging off their hinges.
Then it’s the TVs.
Every. Single. One.
Because why the fuck does every room need a television ?
You swing at the first one, watching the screen crack and flicker, glass shards scattering across the hardwood floor. Then the next, and the next, until there’s nothing left but broken plastic and shattered screens.
But that’s still not enough.
The sinks.
You crank the faucets on full blast, watching the water spill over before you spit into them, the pipes sizzling and corroding instantly.
Keigo’s favorite car sits in the driveway, gleaming under the moonlight, freshly purchased, still smelling like new leather and money.
Too bad about the broken windshield.
Your bat swings once, then twice, then three times for good measure, before you shove the damn thing into neutral and push it over the edge of the property’s cliffside driveway.
It tumbles down the rocky slope, scraping against jagged edges, until it lands with a loud splash in the saltwater below.
Huh.
Guess he’ll find it there later.
You step back, shoulders rising and falling with each breath, but you’re not done. Not yet.
The wedding china.
The plates, the dishes, the goddamn gravy boat.
You hurl them at the wall, watching them shatter into pieces, and for the first time, your hands shake —because that hurt. That was a gift from your grandfather. That was yours .
You swallow hard, eyes burning, but you don’t stop.
Your wedding dress is in the attic, stuffed away in a box that smells like dust and memories. It was a short thing, gifted by Nemuri from her first failed attempt down the aisle, something borrowed, something meant to be special.
Keigo’s tux is there too. An old rental, something he nearly threw away.
You whisper a quiet, sorry, to the dress before setting it ablaze.
Better for it to burn than to live in that dingy old box forever.
But Keigo’s tux? That, you take downstairs.
You nail it to the front steps.
For when he gets married again.
And then, finally, you slide the ring off your finger. It’s lighter now.
You don’t look at it as you place it on the nightstand, as you go back upstairs and pull out an old suitcase. You pack only what you came into this house with. The clothes from your old life. And your hero costume.
For good measure, you slice up Keigo’s expensive jackets, the ones he always threw over your shoulders in public when people were watching, but never when you actually needed them. All this money can’t buy you the arms that you wish would hold you more than just at night when you’re falling apart and can’t feel anything. Then you flood the bathtub with them.
And spit.
The fire crackles, eating through the fabric, the flames licking up the ruined cloth, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt leather and regret.
Do you feel better?
No.
But it helps .
And then you leave.
You step out of the house barefoot, your pretty dress stained with smoke and dust, your expensive heels clicking against the pavement as you walk . And you don’t stop. Not until you reach your grandfather’s old house. The porch steps creak under your weight as you sink down, too exhausted to even push open the door.
Your body is spent. Your soul is empty.
So you just curl up on the steps, resting your head against the worn wood. And for the first time that night—
You close your eyes in peace.
—————
Keigo watches you from across the room, his golden eyes tracing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. He sees it all. The hurt. The betrayal. The night he can never take back.
And the worst part?
He knows—knows deep down in his bones—that there’s nothing he can do to fix it.
No matter how hard he tries, no matter how many times he rewinds the memory in his head, searching for the moment where he could have done anything differently.
Because he did come home that night.
Heart pounding. Mind racing.
At first, he thought someone had attacked you, that some villain had stormed the house, tearing it apart, leaving nothing but chaos and destruction in their wake. But then he saw it.
The tux.
Nailed to the front steps like a goddamn headstone.
And then he stepped inside.
The walkway, the living room— empty.
Not in the way that an unfinished house is empty, but in the way that something once full of life had been stripped bare, gutted from the inside out. The only things left were the shards of glass scattered across the floor, catching the moonlight like cruel little stars.
His stomach had twisted at the sight, his fingers tightening around the doorframe as he forced himself to move forward, to climb the broken staircase, to look .
And when he did—When he stepped into your bedroom—His knees nearly buckled beneath him.
Black stains marred the pristine white carpet. It took him a second to understand what they were.
And then it hit him like a freight train.
Your tears.
You had knelt there, crying so hard and so long that the venom from your mouth had dripped onto the floor, burning into the fibers. His gaze had swept the room, taking in the smoldering remains of your shared mattress, the burned sheets, the shattered windows. His jackets—shredded beyond recognition.
And there—on the bedside table—
The ring.
The one thing he never thought he’d see off your finger.
And then he checked the closet. Your clothes—all the ones he had ever bought you—were still there. Neatly folded, untouched. The only things missing were the clothes you brought with you the day he gave you the keys and you moved in together.
The same keys he now kept locked in a safety deposit box. Along with the keys to your first apartment. Because some part of him had always held onto the hope that maybe—just maybe —you’d come home.
But that hope had been a fool’s dream, hadn’t it?
He hates the person he was then. Because even if people needed him, he took vows to you.
And he broke them.
Maybe there was no adultery, no scandal, nothing that would make the tabloids scream betrayal. But what does that even matter?
He still failed you.
And he doesn’t blame you for wanting out. For wanting away from him.
But fuck —he’d been an idiot.
An idiot to not try harder. To not fight tooth and nail until his last dying breath to make it right. To not chase after you, to not choose you the way he should have from the very beginning.
And now, standing here, watching you—
He wonders if maybe the right thing to do is to finally let you go.
To stop being selfish.
To give you the space you deserve to heal , to move on, to find someone who truly understands you. Someone who isn’t afraid to tell the world no for you, who will always put you first.
Someone who will love you better than he ever did.
And God—
He hopes that whoever it is, they love you more than anyone in the world.
Because you deserve it.
You always did.
"Okay."
Keigo blinks at you, his golden eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. Okay? That’s it?
"Okay?" he echoes, like he needs confirmation, like he hadn’t just spent the past few minutes bracing himself for another argument, another rejection, another reminder of how much he fucked up.
" Yes, okay," you say with a yawn, stretching your arms over your head as your hair flattens slightly against the pillow. "That's what I just said, right?"
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you, still half-buried in sleep, your voice groggy, your body warm beside his. He doesn’t know what he was expecting— screaming? A shattered vase? —but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
"I don't see the point in wasting a beautiful day," you add, voice softer now, as if admitting something you’re not sure you should. "But I'm tired. I need a nap."
And so you do.
Just like that.
You turn over, curl up under the blanket, and drift off. Keigo watches you for a moment longer before finally settling in beside you. His wings fold close, the weight of everything still lingering heavy on his chest, but for the first time in a long time, he lets it be. He lets you be.
And maybe it’s not forgiveness. Maybe it’s not even healing.
But it’s something.
The sun is well into the afternoon sky by the time he stirs, rousing you gently with a touch to your arm, murmuring your name in that low, familiar voice.
You wake slowly, stretching again before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.
"Five more minutes," you grumble. Keigo chuckles.
"That’s what you said an hour ago."
You throw a weak punch at his arm before shuffling to your bedroom. At first, you tug on a plain tee and jeans, running a brush through your hair before stopping. Your eyes flick to the back of the closet, to something you haven’t worn in a long time.
A soft pink dress. Short and flowing. One you used to wear on dates before you got married.
You hesitate for only a second before pulling it out. It feels almost foreign in your hands, but when you slip it on, it fits just the same. A little piece of the past, like muscle memory. Your hands move on their own—pulling your hair into a high ponytail, swiping on a light cat eye, painting your lips a deep maroon before adding a slick gloss over it.
Your eyes flicker to your feet next. Heels? No, too much. Sandals? Maybe.
Instead, you grab a pair of flat tennis shoes, white, and slip them on over your hot chili pepper socks. A tiny smirk tugs at your lips. You used to wear them all the time, and Keigo always teased you for it.
When you finally step outside, the sunlight kisses your skin, and Keigo—
Keigo is already waiting.
He stands there, casual as ever, golden eyes sweeping over you in quiet admiration before his hand disappears behind his back and reemerges holding a large bouquet of flowers.
You stop short, eyes flicking between him and the bouquet.
"Where did you get those?"
He grins, his classic, cocky smirk making its first real return in what feels like ages. "I have my ways."
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. You take the bouquet from him, inhaling the soft, floral scent before carefully opening the sliding glass door and placing them in a vase with fresh water. But before you turn away, you pluck a single sweet pink rose, tucking it between your fingers.
When you step back toward him, his arms are already open, waiting—
And without hesitation, you wrap yourself around him.
His arms tighten around your waist, lifting you with ease like he used to, like it’s routine , like it’s muscle memory .
And for a moment—just a moment—everything feels familiar again.
Keigo lifts you into the air with ease, the wind rushing past as you hold onto him, your heart steady against his. His wings beat strong and sure, carrying you higher, away from everything—the city, the noise, the expectations.
For once, there is no mission. No duty. No answering to anyone.
Just this. Just you.
The sun is warm against your skin, golden and high, as he finally descends upon a quiet field nestled between rolling hills. A place untouched by the rush of the world. He lands effortlessly, his boots meeting the soft earth with a quiet thud before setting you gently down beside him.
There’s a small rental station tucked under the shade of a willow tree, and Keigo pulls out his wallet before handing over a few crisp bills. In return, he’s given two sleek bicycles, their frames shining in the midday sun.
"Hope you still like bike rides," he muses, smirking as he swings a leg over his.
You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own smirk as you do the same.
And then you’re off—pedaling down winding dirt paths, the wind catching your hair, the scent of fresh earth and wildflowers filling your lungs.
The river beside you glistens, its waters clear and cool, flowing endlessly along the curves of the land. Keigo rides ahead at times, turning back to call out teasing remarks, daring you to keep up, but other times he slows just enough to let you ride beside him, your hands brushing every so often as your laughter fills the air.
At a small wooden stand along the path, an old mountain man greets you with a weathered smile, his hands rough but steady as he hands you fresh fruit and skewers of grilled meat. Keigo pays him generously, thanking him before leading you to a shaded spot where you both eat, savoring the simple flavors.
Then, with a sly grin, Keigo wipes a stray drop of juice from the corner of your lips with his thumb. His touch lingers, eyes golden and soft, and for a moment, he swears you both are younger again—two reckless souls, dressing up for each other just for fun, holding hands simply because you wanted to, not caring if anyone else saw, because you see each other, and that was all that ever mattered.
He never thought he’d get to have this again.
After the meal, he takes your hand and leads you somewhere even more breathtaking—a secluded stretch of Japan’s most beautiful flower fields. Endless waves of color spread before you, vibrant reds, soft lilacs, golden yellows, and blushing pinks painting the earth in an explosion of life.
"A private tour," he murmurs, nudging your side as he watches your expression, drinking in the way your eyes widen with wonder. "Just for you."
And it is just for you.
No cameras. No reporters. No agency calls.
He left his phone at home on purpose—no tracking, no interruptions.
Just this.
Just you.
As the day winds down, the sky begins to shift, trading its bright blues for something softer, richer—deep oranges and soft pinks flood the heavens, painting the clouds in their warm embrace.
You both lay stretched out on a picnic blanket, the fabric worn but comfortable against the cool grass. The scent of flowers drifts through the air, mingling with the fading heat of the sun. Your head rests in his lap, your body relaxed, skin kissed by the sun, glowing beneath its last golden rays. His fingers move gently, threading delicate stems together, weaving a flower crown with practiced ease.
You hum quietly, running your fingers through the soft grass, feeling the earth beneath your touch, the moment settling deep into your bones.
"Hold still," Keigo murmurs, placing the finished crown atop your head. You glance up at him, catching the way his golden eyes soften, the way his lips twitch into a barely-there smile.
"Perfect," he whispers.
And for the first time in a long time, he truly believes that this moment —just this —is all he’s ever needed.
You move suddenly, shifting up in his lap so quickly that his wings ruffle in surprise.
"Hey, dove, what are you—"
"Shut up, birb brain," you mutter, licking your lips before grabbing his face.
Keigo lets you, just like he always does. It’s something that used to unnerve him when you first met, when you started dating, but he’s long since grown used to it—the way you inspect him like a cat, your sharp eyes scanning every inch of him as if you’re searching for something out of place.
Your fingers thread through his hair, combing through the strands, checking for anything you don’t approve of. He doesn’t move, barely even breathes, just lets you do what you need to.
Your pupils dilate, then shrink, then dilate again as you stare into his golden eyes. He’s watched this before, felt it before, how your scrutiny is never cruel, never careless—it’s careful, meticulous. Like you’re cataloging him, making sure he’s still here, still whole.
Then, without a word, you turn him slightly, brushing your fingers over his back, plucking loose pin feathers and laying them out in your lap like little trophies. Keigo exhales through his nose, resigned, watching as you note each one with silent judgment.
"You need to moisturize," you murmur, rubbing one of the smaller feathers between your fingers. "And let Touya help you if you're gonna be a bitch about it." Keigo gawks at you, wings twitching.
"I haven’t seen him in forever—"
"Don't lie to me." Your nose wrinkles, and he knows there’s no fooling you. "Tell him a man who's died twice doesn’t need to kick the bucket to a cigarette addiction." He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, yeah, I’ll pass it along."
You let him go suddenly, like you’re done with your little assessment, and flop back onto the blanket without another word. Keigo blinks down at you, rubbing at his jaw where your fingers had gripped him, before shaking his head with a huff.
"Y’know, sometimes I think you might love my feathers more than you love me," he teases. You smirk, closing your eyes.
"Hate to break it to you, birdie, but they were my first love."
Keigo snorts, leaning over you, his shadow stretching over your sun-kissed skin. "Guess that makes me your side piece then, huh?" You hum, cracking one eye open.
"Mm. Keep up the good behavior, and I might just promote you."
He grins.
"Guess I better work hard then."
You burst into laughter, the sound spilling out of you uncontrollably, catching you both off guard. It startles Keigo for a second before he starts laughing too, that boyish, unrestrained laugh you used to hear all the time—before everything.
And it keeps going, your laughter feeding off each other, bubbling over until your stomach aches and your cheeks are warm.
You can't help but smile when you see him like this. Keigo—he feels ten feet off the ground, weightless in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
Your hands find his, holding onto them from where you’re lying between his legs, your head resting in his lap. The flower crown in your hair fights to stay in place, petals shifting gently as the wind plays with the strands of your hair.
It’s such a perfect moment—the flowers around you, the sky melting into brilliant hues, the way your skin glows, alive and healthy.
The setting sun casts a golden glow over Keigo’s face, catching in his windswept hair and making his eyes burn with a warmth that melts straight into you. The wind hums through the open land, rustling the flowers around you, making them bow gently as if nature itself recognizes the weight of this moment. But none of it matters—not the sky, not the wind, not the fading light.
Right now, it’s just you and him, existing in a perfect kind of stillness.
Your laughter lingers in the air, soft and unrestrained, a sound Keigo would bottle up and keep forever if he could. He watches you, completely enthralled, because he’s seeing something sacred, something only he has the privilege of knowing.
And when you smile at him—genuine and unguarded—his heart stirs, light as air, as if it’s grown wings of its own.
Being with Keigo feels almost like freedom, like the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future can't touch you here. Like for once, you are both untethered, just two souls caught in each other’s orbit, unburdened by the world beyond.
His hand finds yours, his thumb grazing the back of your knuckles in a quiet kind of devotion, and you squeeze back, grounding yourself in him.
The wind carries the scent of wildflowers, the last of the sun’s rays spilling over the horizon, but you don’t care.
You only care about this—him, you, together.
And in this fleeting, fragile moment, it feels like nothing could ever take that away.
Then you wipe a tear from your eye, and Keigo watches the way your little teeth poke out from behind your soft lips, a detail he never stopped loving.
"It’s moments like this," you say, voice quiet, almost hesitant,
"When I believe I can fall in love with you again."
Keigo swallows hard, his throat working against the lump forming there. He tries not to blink, not to close his eyes, terrified you’ll disappear in the fraction of a second he does. Instead, he leans down, his hands tightening around yours.
"Would you?"
The laughter dies.
The warmth in your face fades, your expression sobering as you hold his hands back. Silence stretches between you both, heavy and aching. Keigo feels it settle in his bones, a sharp contrast to the golden, fleeting happiness you’d just shared.
And then you finally answer.
"I could…" you say, voice barely above a whisper.
"But I won’t."
Keigo tries not to react, tries not to let it show. But there’s too much history between you, too much weight in the air. You both know each other too well for him to pretend.
"Keigo, I’m—"
"Don't."
You pause, mouth slightly open, but you let him speak.
"Don't," he repeats, softer this time. "You have every right. I just…"
His eyes flick over your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. Then, slowly, his hands rise, cupping your cheeks, his touch impossibly gentle. His thumbs glide beneath your eyes, collecting the tears that had started to gather, his warmth sinking into your skin.
The breeze whispers through the field, making the flowers sway, bending in reverence to the moment passing between you both.
"You just wish things were different, right?"
He nods, dipping his head closer, his throat betraying him when he swallows hard.
"I do."
"Me too."
Keigo opens his eyes again, and for a second—just a second—he sees you. The real you. The earnest girl he fell in love with, the girl he thought he’d grow old with, the one he’d everything for.
And you see him. The boy who made his dreams come true, the only man you could ever love like this.
There will be no others. Not for you. Not for him.
"A bird cannot love a fish," you murmur, your voice barely carried by the wind.
Keigo flinches. His wings shudder, and a soft, wounded noise escapes the back of his throat.
"Please, don’t…" he whispers. "Not that saying again."
So you don’t.
You just stare into his golden eyes, and he stares into yours—where he finds himself lost, and where you find yourself found.
The sky above is vast and endless.
And you know you shouldn’t.
You both know you shouldn’t.
There’s too much pain here. Too much time lost.
But Keigo leans in anyway, until your noses touch, your foreheads press together, and you stay like that, frozen in something between longing and regret.
Your hands move slowly, framing his face, nails skimming his skin just enough to make him shiver. He breathes you in, your scent hitting him like a memory too vivid to be anything but real. His favorite drug. You feel his warmth seep into you, melting the cold hollowness that has lived inside your chest for too long. You both feel it.
How could something so right feel so wrong?
As promised here is more info:
You and Keigo were once the hottest couple of the hero world—until, without warning, you filed for divorce.
The media spun the story every way they could, branding you as an opportunist, a traitor, a villain who played the long game. But Keigo? He never once spoke against you. If anything, all he’s done is defend you—both in the public eye and from it.
Now, months later, he’s supposed to be at a high-profile Valentine’s Day event, flashing that easy smile for the cameras.
Instead, he’s at your doorstep, dodging vases and sharp words from Rumi, who seems more than happy to keep him from getting too close. But Keigo’s never been one to back down. No matter how many times you evade him—setting fire to his car, disappearing behind locked doors—he keeps showing up, keeps reminding you of what once was. Because no matter how much you try to push him away, there’s one thing neither of you can deny:
You still love each other.
Your history is tangled, your wounds are still fresh and raw, but fate has a cruel sense of humor. You may no longer wear his ring, but in the eyes of the public, you’re still bound together. Keigo is still holding out hope that you don’t actually want to let him go.
And maybe you don't really want to...
~~
My master list is a work in progress but there's plenty more fic's and other characters if you request them. Ao3 is sexy too. I haven't posted the story yet because I need to Finish my Katsuki one first at least, but all the support and comments I receive help give me the motivation to finish!
You can also tip me a coffee if you want.
Remember: Comments and likes, really help. Don't be afraid to leave me a sexy little reblog too.
Stay tuned for the rest!! If you wanna be tagged, lemme know.
I promise I bite~
See you soon my loves!! <33
-Angie (✿^‿^)
I do not own My Hero Academia or its characters. However, the original plot, storylines, and any original characters in this work are my own creation. Please do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own. Respect the effort and creativity that went into this story—thank you!
More Posts from Emmaafinchh and Others
😩😩😩
Bakugou Katsuki driving a PORCHE–
WOF WOOF BARK BQRK GGGRRR WOF GRRR BARK BARK GRR GRRR WOF WOOFGGRR BARK AAAGGHHH GRR MEOWWOF WOOF BARK BQRK GGGRRR WOF GRRR BARK BARK GRR GRRR WOF WOOFGGRR BARK AAAGGHHH GRR MEOWWOF WOOF BARK BQRK GGGRRR WOF GRRR BARK BARK GRR GRRR WOF WOOFGGRR BARK AAAGGHHH GRR MEOWWOF WOOF BARK
Realest thing I’ve read today
Callum Turner's curls are my Roman empire ❤️
heeppy hoolida
ID LET THEODORE NOTT MANIPULATE ME AND GASLIGHT ME. OKAY?!
ID BE FINE WITH IT.
ID PROBABLY KNOW ITS HAPPING AND BE LIKE
“oh my god, you are so right, baby. im so sorry. how can i make it better?”
This is so disheartening. Lmk who’s moving to Canada because we can rent a house all together!!!!
lili reinhart they could never make me hate you or even slightly dislike you 🤍
My favorite show is on
CHAPTER 13: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER
pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader
summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.
But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.
wc: 5k
FLASHBACK
“Nova, can you h—?”
The sound of static crackled through your earpiece, cutting off the desperate voice on the other end. You winced, shielding your face as the blistering heat of the raging fire licked at your skin. The warehouse, once teeming with federal agents and your team, was now a deathtrap engulfed in flames.
This wasn’t how the mission was supposed to end.
The vital evidence you needed to bring Anthony Moretti to justice—the files, the ledgers, the weapons cache—was turning to ash before your eyes. Desperation clawed at your chest as you searched for an exit amid the chaos, flames casting long, erratic shadows across the crumbling structure.
It was hard to believe that only 24 hours ago, you were sitting across from Moretti in a high-end restaurant, the air thick with the smell of calamari and overpriced cologne. The man had smiled as you choked down bitter cocktails, blissfully unaware that you were dismantling his empire from within. Now, everything he’d built—the lives he’d destroyed, the drugs he’d sold, the blood money he’d hoarded—was being consumed by the very flames that threatened to take you with them.
You didn’t have time to mourn the loss of the evidence. Surviving came first.
A sharp, metallic crack reverberated through the air just before a sudden blow to the back of your head made your vision blur. Staggering, you barely registered the weight of a body slamming into you before you hit the ground, the impact knocking the wind from your lungs.
“Tell me who sent you, or I’ll kill you right now,” growled a familiar voice, low and venomous.
Anthony Moretti.
He was on top of you, one knee digging painfully into your ribs, a cold barrel pressed to your temple. He couldn’t see your face beneath your mask and hero uniform, but that didn’t seem to matter. His words carried the fury of a man backed into a corner, desperate and dangerous.
The flickering firelight illuminated his features—sharp lines of anger etched into his face.
You gritted your teeth, twisting your body beneath him. With a swift motion, you drove your knee into his stomach, hard enough to make him double over with a grunt of pain. As he staggered backward, clutching his abdomen, you thrust your hand forward, summoning your power.
He flew across the room, slamming into the concrete wall with a bone-jarring thud. His body stuck there, pinned as though held by invisible bonds.
You reached up and pulled off your mask, letting it fall to the scorched ground. The flickering flames illuminated your face, and you saw the confusion, the betrayal, and the anger that twisted his features even further.
“Lily?” he gasped, his expression shifting as the realization hit him. His voice was a mixture of disbelief and something that almost sounded like heartbreak.
“No,” you replied, your voice cold and resolute.
“My name’s Nova,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’m a hero.”
Moretti’s eyes narrowed as he struggled against the invisible force holding him in place. The firelight danced in his dark eyes, highlighting the rage simmering just beneath the surface.
“A hero?” he spat, his voice thick with venom. “Heroes don’t destroy lives. Heroes don’t betray people who trusted them.”
You clenched your fists, his words slicing deeper than you cared to admit. “You don’t get to lecture me about betrayal, Moretti. You built your empire on lies, blood, and fear. How many families have you destroyed? How many people have died because of you?”
His lip curled into a sneer. “And you think you’re better? Pretending to be one of us, cozying up to me, all for this?” He gestured around the burning warehouse as much as his pinned position would allow.
You stepped closer, your boots crunching against the broken glass and debris littering the floor. The heat was becoming unbearable, sweat dripping down your face, but you refused to let him see any weakness.
“This is justice,” you said firmly. “You’ve spent years thinking you were untouchable, that no one could stop you. But look around, Moretti. Your empire is crumbling, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
For a moment, silence filled the space between you, broken only by the roar of the flames. Then, he laughed—a low, bitter sound that sent a chill down your spine despite the suffocating heat.
Moretti’s eyes blazed with fury as he struggled against your powers, his voice a growl of defiance. “You think this is over? That locking me up ends this?” He barked a harsh laugh, the sound cutting through the roaring flames.
“You’re delusional, Nova. As long as you’re alive, you’ll never know peace. Everyone you care about—your family, your friends—I’ll make sure they all pay for what you’ve done here tonight.”
You forced yourself to stay steady, to keep your face impassive even as the weight of his threat coiled in your chest.
“You’re not in a position to make threats,” you snapped, dragging him closer to the exit. But his words lingered, burrowing into your mind like a parasite.
Moretti sneered, his confidence unshaken despite the fire and chaos surrounding him. “You underestimate me. Even in chains, I have power. My reach extends far beyond these walls. Do you really think you can protect them all?”
He leaned forward as much as your powers allowed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You’ve made this personal, Lily—or should I call you Nova now? Either way, everyone you love is living on borrowed time.”
You froze, your grip faltering for just a fraction of a second. That was all it took for Moretti to see the crack in your armor, and he smiled—a wicked, knowing grin that sent a chill down your spine.
“I know who you are,” he said softly, almost triumphantly. “Your face might be a secret to the world, but not to me. And when I get out—and I will get out—I’ll make sure you live long enough to watch them all die, one by one.”
The rage that surged through you in that moment was like nothing you’d ever felt before. Your hand trembled as you fought the urge to tighten your hold, to slam him against the wall again and silence him for good.
PRESENT:CHAPTER 12 CONTINUATION…
The door to the east wing loomed before you, and with a shared nod, you pushed it open. Inside, Moretti waited, flanked by a handful of his men. His cold green eyes lit up with twisted amusement as he saw you enter.
“Well, well,” he drawled, spreading his arms as if welcoming old friends. “The runaway and the hothead. I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“You won’t be wondering much longer,” Bakugo growled, stepping forward, explosions sparking in his palms.
“Careful, Dynamight,” Moretti said with a smirk, his hand casually resting on the pistol at his side. “I still hold all the cards.”
You stepped beside Bakugo, your voice calm but firm. “Not anymore, Moretti. This ends now.”
The tension in the room thickened as Bakugo and you stood ready, the weight of your words settling over Moretti. His smirk faltered, but it was quickly replaced with a look of cold, calculating rage. He had underestimated you, but that would be his mistake.
“You think you can just walk in here and take me down?” Moretti sneered, his hand tightening around the grip of his pistol. “You’re both pathetic if you believe that.”
Before he could raise his weapon, Bakugo lunged forward, blasting the ground beneath him with an explosion that sent him hurtling towards Moretti at high speed. The force of the blast threw the men standing beside him back, and Bakugo collided with Moretti’s right-hand man, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.
Moretti barely had time to react before you were on him, your quirk flaring as you moved with a speed and precision that startled him. Your hand shot out, knocking the pistol from his grasp before he could pull the trigger. The metallic clatter of the weapon hitting the floor echoed through the room.
“Nice try,” you said, your voice a low growl, as you stepped back, preparing yourself for whatever came next.
Bakugo, now almost free of the goons who’d been circling him, shot you a look. “Careful.”
“Focus,” you shot back, keeping your eyes locked on Moretti.
Bakugo advanced first, throwing an explosion directly at the nearby table, the force of the blast sending it toppling over, blocking the line of sight for Moretti’s men. They tried to recover, but Bakugo was already upon them, his fists lashing out with the sheer force of his explosive quirk.
Meanwhile, you circled behind Moretti, not giving him a moment to breathe. You could feel the surge of power building inside you, the remnants of your quirk pushing against your skin. But there was something more, something deeper driving you—the need to finish what you’d started, to take down the man who had ruined your life and threatened the people you cared for.
“You’re not getting away with this,” you said, your voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Moretti spun around, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You really think you can defeat me?” he hissed, his tone full of venom. “I’ve been untouchable for years. You’re just a scared little girl trying to play hero.”
You took a step closer, ignoring the sting of his words. “I’m not scared of you, Moretti.”
In the split second he took to reach for another weapon, you lunged, gripping his arm and twisting it behind his back. Your quirk surged again, crackling in your palms as you pressed him against the wall. His breaths grew more frantic as he struggled against your grip.
A pained groan cut through the air, and your eyes instinctively flicked to Bakugo. He was still standing, but barely. His explosions were less precise now, slower, his arms trembling with fatigue as each burst sent another one of Moretti’s men crashing to the floor. His breaths were sharp and ragged, the strain of maintaining his power taking its toll.
Distracted by the sight of him, your guard faltered, and in that moment, Moretti took advantage of the opening. With a brutal headbutt, he drove you back, the impact reverberating through your skull.
Before you could regain your footing, Moretti shoved you into a nearby window, and you felt the glass give way beneath your body, sharp shards embedding into your skin as the window shattered. The rush of air knocked the wind out of you, and the sharp sting of glass against your abdomen sent waves of agony crashing through your chest.
Moretti didn’t pause. He lifted you effortlessly and threw you to the ground, the harsh impact jolting your bones. The pain was almost unbearable, but you fought to stay conscious, to keep moving. You found yourself beneath him once more, his face hovering above you as he tried to catch his breath. His hands were pinning your wrists above your head, trapping you beneath him as he sneered.
"Did you mean it?" His voice was low, filled with something that bordered on insanity.
"What?" You gasped, still trying to catch your breath.
"Did you kill her?"
The question struck you like a slap. "Yes," you answered, your voice hoarse but steady.
He seemed to flinch, his grip tightening around your wrists as his anger surged. "The one thing I loved most in this world... and you took her from me."
You locked eyes with him, your gaze cold and unyielding. "She didn’t deserve a father like you."
His jaw clenched as his fury flared. “I should’ve made you pay for this a long time ago.”
With a vicious growl, Moretti’s fingers tightened around your throat, the crushing pressure cutting off your airway. Your vision blurred, stars flickering at the edges as panic gripped you. His other hand fumbled at his side, and you caught the gleam of the gun as he raised it, his aim steady and deliberate.
“Don’t think I ever forgot about our conversation from years ago.” he snarled, his voice laced with venom. His eyes flicked briefly to Bakugo, who was battling a swarm of Moretti’s men, explosions lighting up the darkened warehouse like fireworks.
Desperation clawed at your chest as you struggled beneath him, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. His grip on your throat loosened slightly as he adjusted his aim, allowing you to gasp for air.
“No—no, Moretti,” you croaked, your voice raw and trembling. Anxiety churned in your stomach, the weight of his words from years ago echoing in your mind. The fire. The pain. The promises of vengeance he’d made that night.
Fear twisted through you as you watched Bakugo fight, oblivious to his danger. His movements were relentless, a blur of precision and fury as he blasted away at the men surrounding him. But he was too far away, too distracted to notice what was happening.
“Please—I’m begging you,” you rasped, the words tumbling out in a broken plea.
Moretti paused, his cold eyes locking on yours. A twisted smile curled at the edges of his lips, full of malice and triumph. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.
“You took my daughter. It’s only fair if I take something from you.”
The weight of his words hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless in a new way. You shook your head, tears spilling from your eyes as your chest heaved with silent, frantic sobs.
He cocked the gun with a deliberate click, the sound cutting through the chaos like a death knell. Panic surged through you, overriding the pain and exhaustion.
“KATSUKI—!” you screamed, but the cry was muffled as Moretti slammed his hand over your mouth.
“You don’t get to call for him,” he hissed, his face inches from yours. The noise of explosions and the shouting of men drowned out your muffled cries. Bakugo didn’t turn around, didn’t see the danger he was in.
“Say goodbye,” he whispered.
It happened in an instant.
The deafening crack of the gunshot rang out, cutting through the chaos like a dagger. Time seemed to slow as you watched Bakugo jerk to a stop, the impact of the bullet slamming into his side. His crimson eyes widened, not in fear, but in rage, as blood began to seep through his hero costume.
“No!” you screamed, your voice breaking as you tried to reach for him.
Bakugo staggered, one hand clutching his side as he dropped to a knee. His teeth clenched in pain, but the fire in his eyes didn’t falter. “You think a bullet’s gonna stop me?” he growled, forcing himself back to his feet despite the blood now dripping onto the floor.
Moretti sneered, his gun still raised, aiming for Bakugo’s head this time. “You’re tougher than you look,” he mocked. “But I don’t miss twice.”
Before Moretti could pull the trigger again, he raised his hand, motioning for his guards to stand down. The men hesitated, confused, but obeyed, lowering their weapons as they stepped away from Bakugo.
Moretti’s hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking you up with brutal force. A sharp grunt escaped your lips as pain radiated from your scalp, your knees buckling beneath you.
“Please—” you gasped, tears spilling freely now as you struggled against his iron grip. “Leave him alone. This is between us.”
“No…” His voice echoed with venom as he repeated the words from years ago. “As long as you’re alive, you’ll never know peace. Everyone you care about—your family, your friends—I'll make sure they all suffer for what you’ve done here tonight.”
“Then let him go,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “Kill me. It’s me you want.”
Moretti chuckled darkly, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned in closer. His nose brushed against the side of your face, his lips ghosting over your ear. “You still smell so sweet,” he murmured, his voice dripping with malice, “even with all that blood.”
His grip on you tightened like a vice, pulling your body flush against his. The weight of his presence was suffocating. “I never wanted to kill you, you know,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “I loved you once… But you seem to have that effect on men. Breaking them.”
He turned his gaze toward Bakugo, who was glaring at him with unrelenting fury despite the blood staining his side. Moretti smirked, his fingers digging into your skin.
“Do you love her?” Moretti asked, his voice sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Katsuki, don’t answer him,” you said quickly, your voice strained with desperation.
Moretti’s expression darkened. “I said… do you love her?”
There was a beat of silence, heavy and suffocating. Then Bakugo spoke.
“No.”
Moretti erupted into a cruel, mocking laugh. “And you were going to sacrifice yourself for what? For him? A man who doesn’t love you?”
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you looked at Bakugo. His face was tense, his expression unreadable, but his eyes never left yours.
“So what’s it gonna be, Nova?” Moretti taunted, his voice low and venomous. “You or him?”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you turned to face Moretti fully, the broken window behind the two of you framing the chaos of the moment.
“Me,” you said, your voice steady, even as tears streamed down your face.
Before he could react, you threw your arms around him, holding him tight as you surged forward. His eyes widened in shock, the realization dawning too late. You plunged through the shattered window, the sharp glass fragments cutting through the air.
The rush of air stole the breath from your lungs as you fell, the world spinning in a chaotic blur. Moretti’s body was heavy against yours, but you held onto him until the last moment. Then, you released him, watching as he fell below you. His eyes closed, a look of grim acceptance on his face as he hurtled toward the ground.
You felt a strange calmness begin to settle over you, the wind whipping against your skin.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. The chaos of the world, the deafening winds, and the fear—all faded into a distant hum. In that instant, it was just you and the open sky, weightless and free.
But as the ground rushed up toward you, your heart pounded with something else—something deeper than fear. It was the finality of it all, the understanding that, for once, you were not just a survivor. You were someone who had chosen to end it all, choosing to make sure he couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Then a bright flash of blonde hair cut through the blur of motion. The explosion of sound that followed was deafening, the impact of Bakugo’s blast like thunder in your chest. His hand gripped yours, pulling you close as the world seemed to collapse into itself.
And then, there was stillness. A strange kind of peace, despite the chaos surrounding you. Bakugo’s arms wrapped around you tightly, his body warm and strong against yours, the only thing keeping you tethered to life. You could feel his heart racing, a mirror to your own, but there was an unspoken promise in the way he held you, something more powerful than words. A connection that no threat could sever.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his breath ragged but steady.
The ground rushed up to meet you both, but Bakugo twisted midair, shielding you with his body as you landed with a bone-jarring impact. The force of the explosion softened the fall, but pain radiated through you both as you hit the ground.
Dust and debris hung thick in the air, the faint glow of the moon filtering through the shattered window above. For a moment, everything was eerily silent, the chaos finally settling. Then, a low groan broke the stillness.
Bakugo’s arms were still wrapped protectively around you, his grip loose but steadfast. His chest heaved against yours, his breathing labored yet steady.
“That was fucking risky,” he rasped, his voice rough but tinged with exasperation.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and blood, but his crimson eyes burned as fiercely as ever. “You’re bleeding,” you said, your voice trembling as your hands moved to his side. “Sit down. Now.”
“I’m fine,” he grunted, trying to wave you off as he shifted to stand.
“No, you’re not.” Your voice cracked, panic seeping into your tone. “He shot you.”
His lips twitched into a faint smirk, his usual defiance shining through despite the pain. “I’ve been shot plenty of times, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low but teasing. “This? This is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!” you snapped, tears welling in your eyes again as you pressed your palm against the wound on his side, trying to stem the bleeding. The warm, sticky sensation made your stomach twist. “You’re losing blood, we need to get you to a hospital.”
He winced but didn’t pull away, his hand resting lightly over yours. “You’re freaking out over nothing,” he muttered, though his voice softened at the sight of your tears.
“Stop pretending you’re invincible,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t—” Your words faltered, the weight of everything hitting you all at once.
You almost just died, but then you didn’t. The gravity of it all hit you like a crashing wave—one moment, you were falling through the air, feeling the sharp sting of fear and adrenaline; the next, you were in Bakugo’s arms, alive, but barely able to comprehend how.
Bakugo was shot. The blood soaking through his clothes, the pain in his eyes, it tore at you in ways you didn’t know you could feel.
And then Moretti was gone, his lifeless body falling with the same cold inevitability that had followed him for so long. His reign of terror was over, but the victory felt hollow.
"This isn’t anywhere near where I thought we were," Bakugo muttered, his voice gruff as he shifted his weight. His abdomen aching.
You blinked up at the unfamiliar surroundings, the disorienting feeling of being outside yet nowhere near any familiar landmarks sinking in. The buildings were old, run-down, and the streets were eerily quiet, a far cry from the chaos you’d just escaped. The darkness loomed around you like an ever-present shadow, and the unfamiliar city seemed to stretch on endlessly.
Bakugo’s gaze darted over the streets, but there were no signs, no clues to tell him where the hell they’d ended up. The distance between here and the place you had started felt like a world away.
As Bakugo’s attention was momentarily diverted, you quickly yanked your sweatshirt off, revealing only your sports bra underneath. You weren’t sure why the heat had risen in your chest, but it was the only way you could help him now.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bakugo’s voice snapped you from your thoughts, the sharp edge of his tone drawing your focus back to him.
You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, your hands shaking as you began ripping a strip of fabric from the hem of your shirt. The raw urgency of the situation spurred you on, but there was something else—something more fragile, a vulnerability you hadn’t expected to reveal.
“Sit down,” you urged, your voice pleading, unguarded.
The sudden softness in your tone caught him off-guard. For a moment, Bakugo hesitated, but the emotion in your voice broke through his usual defiance. He lowered himself slowly to the ground with a grunt, though his fiery gaze never left you.
“Can you take your top off? I can’t see what I’m working with,” you said, swallowing back the lump in your throat.
Bakugo didn’t argue, a sharp exhale leaving his lips as he pulled his costume's top off. The motion was effortless, but it was clear the effort was taking its toll on him. He winced slightly but didn’t complain.
As the fabric came off, your breath caught in your throat. For a brief moment, it was like time stopped. The sight of him, sweat-drenched and bloodied but still fiercely alive, made you pause. His body was chiseled—like something carved from marble itself. Strong, defined muscles, hardened by years of battle, were a stark contrast to the vulnerability in his eyes.
“Stop starin’,” Bakugo growled, snapping you out of your trance. His voice was rough, the usual cocky arrogance laced with something softer, something only you would notice.
You forced yourself to focus, shaking your head to clear the haze of heat that had settled in your chest. Your hands moved swiftly to tie the makeshift bandage around his wound, your fingers trembling as you worked. The urgency of the moment burned through the haze, the necessity of patching him up overshadowing everything else.
Bakugo gritted his teeth, his gaze flickering between you and the ground, his silence telling you just how much pain he was in. But he didn’t flinch or ask for you to stop.
“Quit worrying,” he muttered, his eyes meeting yours briefly. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”
You finished tying the bandage, your fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary, almost as if you didn’t want to let go. You could feel your pulse racing, but you had to ignore it. You had to focus on him.
The silence between you both was thick, heavy with unspoken words and emotions you had both tried to bury. Bakugo’s chest heaved with each labored breath, and his eyes flickered to you, softened by something deeper than just the pain of the moment.
“This is my fault,” you murmured, your voice trembling with guilt. “I tried to keep you away, but—”
Before you could finish, Bakugo’s hand found yours, squeezing it gently despite the blood staining his fingertips.
“I’d get shot a hundred times if it meant saving you,” he said, his voice low but filled with an unshakable resolve.
The weight of his words struck you like a lightning bolt, making your chest tighten. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. The vulnerability between you both felt so raw, so unfiltered in this moment.
You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. “What you said up there… about not loving me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You couldn’t stop the tremor in your words.
Bakugo’s expression hardened, his eyes darting down to the ground as he exhaled sharply, almost like the words he had said before burned him too. “It was a lie,” he confessed, his voice thick with regret. “I was hopin’ that if I turned you against me, you’d save yourself… but I guess it didn’t matter what I had to say, did it?”
You shook your head, the air thick with the vulnerability that hung between you both. “It didn’t matter what you said,” you whispered. “I would have done it anyway. I’d jump out of a window a hundred times if it meant saving you.”
A small, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and despite everything, despite the blood and the pain, something soft flickered in his eyes. “Idiot,” he muttered, but the warmth in his tone couldn’t be ignored. “You’re insane.”
“I know.” You smiled, but it wasn’t just a smile—it was everything that had been left unsaid, everything you wanted him to understand.
His expression softened, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered hoarsely, though there was no anger in his words, just the quiet desperation of someone who had almost lost the one person they couldn’t bear to lose.
The soft rhythm of Bakugo’s breathing filled the air, and for a moment, it seemed like the world had paused. But then, in the distance, the unmistakable sound of sirens broke through the quiet, growing louder with each passing second. The relief you’d been holding at bay suddenly rushed in, an overwhelming wave of emotion that left you dizzy.
"You called for backup?" you asked, your voice laced with a mix of relief and tension.
"I dropped my pin to shitty hair the moment the power came back on," he replied, his voice steady despite the strain.
You exhaled a shaky breath, the tension in your chest loosening as his words sank in. The sirens were closer now, their sound vibrating through the air, promising salvation just on the horizon.
"Of course you did," you muttered, a small, almost disbelieving laugh escaping your lips.
He smirked faintly, though the strain in his features was impossible to miss.
Your heart twisted at the defiant glint in his eyes, his strength unwavering even as blood seeped through his side, the stain spreading with every second. You stayed beside him, hands trembling as they hovered over his wound.
The sound of boots crunching on debris signaled the arrival of help. You looked over your shoulder to see Kirishima and a team of medics rushing toward you.
“You’re going to be okay,” you whispered, turning back to him as the medics surrounded you both.
His lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Told ya’ so.”
---
TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh @faetoraa@iissza@cax-per @cielito--lindo
@nombakugoswife1
tumblr pls fix this I BEG.
CHAPTER 8: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER
pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader
summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.
But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.
wc: 2.8k
warning: Violence, mentions of blood, knives/stabbing.
---
Since the night of the hero gala, you and James had thrown yourselves headfirst into the Moretti investigation. The memory of that evening—the balcony, Bakugo’s wounded expression, and his retreating figure—played on an endless loop in your mind, but you shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of work and sleepless nights.
You’d left the gala alone, and since then, Bakugo had been a ghost. He didn’t show up at the gym during your usual hours, and you hadn’t dared to reach out. You figured he needed space, and honestly, you didn’t blame him. If he hated you, you deserved it. After all, you had rejected him in the cruelest way, withholding the truth under the guise of protecting him.
Now, every waking moment was devoted to unearthing the evidence you needed to take Moretti down. You told yourself it was for justice, for closure, but deep down, you knew it was also for Bakugo. You needed to make things right. To come clean, to apologize for the lies, and maybe, just maybe, to give him a reason to forgive you.
One long, grueling night, James managed to secure access to confidential Japanese case files—likely crossing a few legal boundaries in the process, but you didn’t care. Laws and rules seemed inconsequential when the only thing that mattered was unraveling the threads of Moretti’s web.
The files contained a chilling revelation. The man with the tattoo on his wrist—the one burned into your memory—was linked to a series of brutal murders in Musutafu. Innocent women, each life stolen with a message carved into the crime scenes that only you could understand. The weight of it crushed you, the realization that these killings weren’t random. They were warnings. Moretti was taunting you, forcing you to see his reach, his cruelty, and his power.
The guilt was suffocating. Every face in those files felt like another strike against your resolve, but you couldn’t let it break you. You wouldn’t. The pain was a reminder that you were on the right path, that you had a chance to end this. And now, finally, you had something to go on.
The new information gave you a flicker of hope —a trail of locations and timestamps where Moretti’s men had been sighted. It was the first solid lead you’d had in weeks, and it was enough to rekindle the fire inside you.
Your hero costume still fits like a second skin, the all-black material hugging your body with an almost suffocating precision. The suit’s sleek fabric molds to your frame, firm and supportive—like it’s designed just for you, like it was made to measure. You had always admired the way the costume looked, and now, years later, your vision seemed to reflect everything you had become: strong, sleek, and dangerous. The mask that covered your face didn’t leave much for anyone to see, except your eyes—piercing, determined eyes that told anyone in your path exactly who they were dealing with.
It’s been six long years since you last wore it. Six years of training, of staying hidden, of learning to control a power so dangerous you feared it more than anything. But tonight, slipping into the familiar black fabric and feeling it stretch over your body, you couldn’t help but feel that rush of energy surge through your veins. It never got old. The suit felt like home, like a part of you, and the weight of the mask reminded you of everything you had fought to become—and everything you had left behind.
As you pull on the gloves, the cool metal of your utility belt clicks against the fabric. You can’t help but admire the intricate stitching that runs along your waist, the design perfect down to the finest detail. The fabric is laced with minerals, rare and strong, designed to help control your quirk. The quirk that you never fully trusted.
Your quirk, gravity manipulation, gives you the power to shift and bend forces of weight, to manipulate objects, people, and even entire structures. It’s the kind of power that could move mountains or level them, depending on your emotions. When you’re calm, you have control—but when you’re upset, when anger and fear take hold, your quirk becomes a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. That’s what happened the night you blacked out and woke up with a bleeding head, unable to recall anything.
Training has made you cautious, teaching you to keep your emotions in check. Years of discipline and self-control have allowed you to control it, but you always feared that if you lost that control, everything would come crashing down. But tonight, you hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Tonight, you needed to keep your head.
After weeks of silence, you’d received a tip—a whisper on an old, secured landline that one of Moretti’s men would be at a bar tonight. The man was important, connected, and you needed to know where Moretti was. So you and James decided to follow the lead. He had urged you to involve the pros again, but you quickly shut that down.
The car in the alleyway feels like a cage, your hands gripping the leather seats as you watch the shadows stretch across the pavement. The waiting game never gets easier. It gnaws at you, especially tonight, knowing that the man you’re hunting could be anywhere. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, the thought of confronting a ghost from your past, churning your stomach.
“How long have we been sitting here?” James asks from the passenger seat, his voice low but edged with a hint of impatience. His eyes flicker toward the bar’s entrance.
“Two hours,” you answer, your voice steady but the tension in your muscles betraying you. You’re not letting your nerves show, but inside, you feel like a coil ready to snap. “He won’t leave yet. We haven’t missed him.”
James glances at you, clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I can go with you.”
“No,” you say sharply, the word final. “I’ve got this.”
You stare at the bar’s entrance, your eyes narrowing. Isaac. The name rolls off your tongue like poison. Isaac, blonde-haired, with the face of a man who has seen too much. He was Moretti’s right hand for years, and you knew him all too well. His cold, calculating eyes never missed a thing, and his loyalty to Moretti was only rivaled by his ruthlessness.
Your instincts tingle. He’s here. You can feel it. A subtle weight in the air, the tension building in your bones. It’s like a sixth sense, honed from years of practice. You don’t know how you know, but you trust it.
Then, like clockwork, he steps out from the bar, his sharp profile cutting through the neon lights. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing around before shouting for a taxi.
Your heart pounds. This is it.
Without a word, you unlock the car door and slide out, ignoring James’s muttered warning. “YN, stop! Stay in the car!” His voice is laced with concern, but you don’t hear him. You’re already striding toward Isaac, your body moving with purpose.
Isaac doesn’t notice you at first, too busy fidgeting with his phone, but as soon as he slides into the cab, you’re there. You don’t hesitate. You pull open the door, stepping into the cab with a practiced fluidity that only someone like you can manage.
“Hey, this is my cab!” Isaac barks, but you don’t flinch.
You glance at the driver, your expression cold and unwavering. “We’re sharing,” you say smoothly, tossing a few bills into the front seat. “Take me up the block. Doesn’t matter where.”
The driver, clearly unbothered by the tense atmosphere, nods and shifts the car into drive. Isaac remains blissfully unaware, but that doesn’t last for long. You slide a knife from your belt, its cold steel glinting under the low lights.
“Say one word, and I’ll put this knife through your crotch,” you murmur, your voice laced with venom as you hold a knife to him.
Isaac freezes, his gaze finally snapping to you. His eyes widen and the realization slowly dawns on him. Recognition flickers in his pupils, and you see the hate burn brighter.
“I always knew you were a crazy bitch.” Isaac hisses, his voice trembling with anger and fear.
“Yeah?” you reply, “well I’m about to get crazier.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but you’re faster. With a swift movement, you grab his chin and force him to look at you. You see the fire in his eyes, the stubborn defiance, but it won’t save him.
“Tell me where Moretti is,” you demand, your tone chilling. “Or I swear, I’ll cut you open right here.”
Isaac snarls. “Fuck you.”
“Okay” Taking the knife you pull it away and plunge it into his thigh, being careful to cover his mouth.
“Tell me, Isaac,” you growl, “Or is that man-crush of yours so strong you’re willing to lose your dick over it?”
Isaac’s jaw clenches, his eyes flickering with defiance. “You want to know where Moretti is? Find him yourself. I don’t work for him anymore.”
“Bullshit.” You twist the blade deeper into his leg.
“Now fucking tell me, or I’ll send Moretti a gift next,” you hiss, your voice dripping with venom.
Isaac’s muffled whimpers are all you hear as you give him one last warning.
“Fine!” he gasps, “He’s staying at the Musutafu motel, on the outskirts of the city.”
“If you’re lying to me,” you warn, “I will kill you.”
He’s sweating now, breathing hard, his face pale as a ghost.
The cab pulls to a stop, and you yank the knife out of his leg, leaving a pool of blood behind. The driver, still unaware of the tension in the backseat, waits for your next command.
You exit without another word, tossing a few more bills toward the driver before slamming the door behind you. As the car pulls away, you spot a black SUV pulling up beside you. You don’t need to look twice to know who’s behind the wheel.
“Well?” Tucker asks, his voice steady but with an edge of impatience.
“He’s at the Musutafu motel,” you reply, your voice curt and emotionless. You slide into the car, the bloody knife still clutched in your hand.
Tucker notices the weapon, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t ask,” you mutter, slumping back into the seat. “Just drive.”
---
The crime rates had doubled in the past two weeks, ever since word of a serial killer leaked to the public. The Hero Committee had tried their best to keep the case under wraps, but someone in the department had let the information slip.
With the city spiraling into panic, the pro-heroes were stretched thin. So focused on this case, they’d nearly lost sight of everything else unraveling around them.
“Shoto, any updates on James Tucker?” Deku asked, standing at the head of the conference table. His fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, the telltale sign of an impending headache.
“Not yet,” Todoroki replied, flipping through a folder of old files. “The only intel I’ve managed to pull are outdated case records and images. If Tucker’s gone into hiding, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be found.”
“Why the hell would he be in hiding?” Bakugo snapped, slamming his hands against the table as he rose from his seat. Weeks of fruitless effort were taking their toll, and the tension in the room was palpable.
Bakugo had been more frustrated than usual lately, and everyone unlucky enough to cross his path could feel the searing heat of his anger. His temper, usually sharp and explosive, seemed to have an added edge now, as though something was festering beneath the surface. The smallest inconveniences sent him into a spiral of irritation—training dummies obliterated into smoldering debris, doors slammed with enough force to rattle the entire building, and curt, venom-laced words that made even his closest friends keep their distance.
At the agency, he barked orders more than usual, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. Kirishima, ever the peacemaker, tried to crack a joke to lighten the mood, but Bakugo’s glare silenced him before the words could fully leave his mouth. Mina would whisper to Sero, “What crawled up his ass and died?” only to quickly clam up when Bakugo’s piercing crimson eyes flicked their way.
It wasn’t just work either—his frustrations followed him home. The gym became a battleground, weights clanging loudly as he threw himself into his workouts with a reckless intensity. The punching bag in the corner stood no chance, shredded after one particularly heated session. Yet no matter how much he pushed his body to its limits, the tension inside him never seemed to dissipate.
The truth was, Bakugo wasn’t just angry. He was hurt. And the wound festered deeper than he was willing to admit.
He hadn’t seen you since that night at the gala. Since you’d looked at him with those beautiful, unreadable eyes and told him—what, exactly? That he didn’t matter? That you didn’t feel the same way? It didn’t make sense. The way you looked at him didn’t match the words you said. The way your voice trembled, the way you avoided his gaze—it was like you were running from something. But what?
The questions plagued him, chasing him into his restless nights. He hated not having answers, hated how powerless he felt, hated how much space you were taking up in his head. Damn you. Damn your stupid, gorgeous face and your laugh and the way you felt so perfect next to him that night.
But more than anything, he hated the gnawing feeling in his chest. The one that whispered he might have lost you for good.
“Actually, Kacchan,” Deku interjected, sliding a photograph across the table toward him. “I might have something.”
Bakugo picked up the image, his crimson eyes narrowing as he examined it. The picture showed a young girl, no older than eight, with wide, curious eyes and a small, cautious smile.
“That’s Anthony Moretti’s daughter,” Deku explained. “We found her in an adoption database. She’s here in Japan.”
Bakugo’s eyes lingered on the photograph, his brow furrowing. There was something about the girl that tugged at his memory.
“I’ve seen her before,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.
“What? Where?” Deku asked, leaning forward.
“At the gym,” Bakugo replied, placing the photo back on the table. “Y/N is her boxing coach.”
The revelation sent a ripple of unease through the room.
“Who put her up for adoption?” Todoroki asked, breaking the silence.
“It’s anonymous. Adoption records don’t disclose that information,” Deku replied.
“How old was she when she was adopted?”
“She couldn’t have been older than two,” Deku said, flipping through his notes.
“Six years ago,” Bakugo muttered, piecing things together. “Right after Moretti was arrested.” He looked up, his gaze sharp. “What about her mom?”
“There’s no record of a mother,” Deku answered, his tone heavy.
“Dammit,” Bakugo growled, his frustration mounting. “We need to find Tucker. He’s the key to this.”
Todoroki chimed in, hesitant. “Maybe... maybe Y/N knows something about the girl. She might be able to help.”
“No,” Bakugo barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not dragging her into this, and I sure as hell ain’t questioning a kid.”
The room fell silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. Time was running out, and with every passing moment, the lines between their responsibilities and their morals blurred further.
“I’ll find Tucker myself if I have to. Got a photo, Icy Hot?” Bakugo demanded, his tone sharp with determination.
Todoroki flipped through his folder without hesitation, pulling out a slightly worn photograph of James Tucker and handing it to him.
Bakugo’s grip tightened around the photo as he stared at it, his blood running cold. His entire stance stiffened, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
He knew this man.
The realization hit him like a freight train, his mind reeling. He’d seen Tucker before—seen him with you.
Everything started falling into place, the fragmented pieces of the puzzle forming a picture that Bakugo could no longer ignore. The explosion. Moretti’s daughter. Tucker. You.
The timeline fit too perfectly to be a coincidence.
Bakugo’s jaw clenched, his crimson eyes narrowing as his thoughts raced. You were connected to Moretti—there was no doubt about that now. But how?
---
TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh @faetoraa @iissza @theasgardianmexican
the best right here
CHAPTER 12: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER
pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader
summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.
But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.
wc: 3.2k
an: This was supposed to be 7k words but I decided to split it into two parts. The second part should be out either tonight or tomorrow morning :)!
---
The guard's grip on your arm tightened as he dragged you down the dimly lit hallway. Your shoes scraped against the cold concrete floor, each step echoing in the oppressive silence. You could barely move your leg, the sharp pain forcing you to drag it behind you. The adrenaline that had masked your injury was wearing off, and only now did you fully register the gunshot wound. The bleeding had slowed however as it only seemed to be a deep graze, the makeshift tourniquet holding firm, but it still hurt like hell.
As you reached a heavy metal door at the end of the hall, you finally broke the silence. “You’re making a mistake,” you said, looking at the guard, who was too busy enjoying the moment to notice the warning in your tone.
The guard scoffed. “It's over for you.”
Without a word, you snapped your arm up, elbowing him hard in the stomach. The guard grunted, stumbling back in surprise. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him hesitate.
Before he could recover, you spun around, using his moment of confusion to deliver a swift kick to his knees. He crumpled to the ground, a shock of pain running up his legs.
You groaned as pain shot through your injured leg as well, nearly buckling under your weight. Instinct kicked in, and you lunged, grabbing the edge of the doorframe to steady yourself. The guard staggered, caught off balance, and you seized the moment. He was strong, but you moved faster. Your breath remained steady, your focus razor-sharp.
“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” you muttered, crouching down to make sure he wasn’t going to get up anytime soon. You pulled his gun from its holster and threw it into an empty room. Making sure he wasn't able to grab ahold of it.
As the guard groaned on the floor, still clutching his bruised stomach, you knew you had a fleeting window of opportunity. You couldn’t afford to waste any more time—Moretti would realize what had happened soon, and when he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to send more men after you.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you considered your options. You could run, but that would lead you straight into more of Moretti’s men and with your leg that wasn't much of an option. You had to think strategically.
You took another breath, forcing your body to calm down. That’s when you felt the familiar, electric surge of power course through your veins—the hum of your quirk.
You closed your eyes for a moment, focusing on the surge within you. You had to do this without hesitation. Without letting fear cloud your control. When you opened your eyes again, the air around you crackled with raw energy.
The guard had begun to stir, and you didn’t have the luxury of waiting any longer. You raised your hand, palm open, and aimed it at the metal door. In an instant, a concentrated burst of power shot from your fingertips, striking the door with enough force to send it slamming back against the wall. The impact was deafening, the metal screeching in protest.
For a split second, the guard froze, eyes wide in disbelief. But it was too late. The shockwave from the blast had knocked him flat, and the surge of power you’d released left the hallway bathed in a low, humming energy.
You didn’t stop to see if the guard would recover. Instead, you turned on your heel and bolted as fast as you could down the corridor, the lightning-fast pulses of your quirk lighting up the path ahead of you. The air seemed to part as you moved, as if the very fabric of the space had been altered by your command.
You could feel the telltale shifts in the atmosphere as Moretti’s men reacted—footsteps echoing, voices shouting orders, the tension rising. They weren’t far behind.
You fired another blast into the ceiling above, causing the ceiling to concave in on itself. You knew Bakugo would be able to blast himself out of the damage. The shock left the hallway filled with swirling electrical currents, disrupting the security systems that Moretti had relied on to track you.
The alarms went off, lights flickering erratically, and that gave you the opening you needed. With a burst of energy, you dashed into a side room, your quirk’s power surging in waves as you manipulated the energy around you to shield your movement. The air hummed and crackled, your energy wrapping around you like an invisible shield, keeping you hidden from view.
You steadied your breathing, the crackling hum of your quirk a comforting reminder that you weren’t powerless even while injured. The side room you’d ducked into was dark and cluttered with old crates and machinery—perfect for buying yourself a moment to strategize.
You crouched low, listening. The voices outside grew louder as Moretti’s men regrouped. They were searching, splitting into teams, their footsteps echoing in the corridor.
“She’s in here somewhere! Fan out!” one of them barked.
Perfect. Let them spread thin.
Closing your eyes, you focused on the currents in the walls. With your quirk, you could feel the flow of electricity running through the building—security cameras, automated locks, even the guards’ radios.
Reaching out, you latched onto the electrical grid, sending a concentrated surge into the radio frequencies. Sparks flew from the earpieces of the guards in the hallway, causing shouts of confusion and panic.
“What the hell?!”
“Radio’s fried!”
“Is she doing this? Damn it—find her!”
Using the chaos, you slipped back into the hallway, keeping low as you moved. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows, but you used them to your advantage, sticking close to the walls.
The guards were scattered now, their communication disrupted, and their coordination in shambles. One of them turned a corner, his back to you. Without hesitation, you surged forward, using the built-up charge in your hand to send a short snap to his neck. He crumpled silently, and you caught his weapon before it hit the floor.
One down.
You pressed on, your steps swift and deliberate.
A group of guards blocked your path ahead, their backs to you as they shouted orders into malfunctioning radios. You crouched, pressing your hand to the floor. With a deep breath, you sent a ripple through the ground, the cement flooring collapsing under the guards. It hit the guards like an invisible net, their bodies locking up momentarily before they collapsed.
The air around you buzzed with static, your quirk’s energy crackling in your veins. You didn’t feel tired—yet. Adrenaline and determination kept you sharp, each movement precise.
Then, you heard it: a low hum, deeper and more menacing than before. The building’s systems were trying to reboot. Moretti was smart—he’d undoubtedly built redundancies into his security. You didn’t have much time before the lights stabilized and his men regrouped.
You pushed forward, rounding another corner, and finally spotted a heavy reinforced door at the end of the hall.
Standing between you and the door was a guard who looked far more formidable than the others—taller, broader, and armed to the teeth. He turned as you approached, his eyes narrowing when he saw you.
“End of the line,” he said, his voice cold.
A smirk tugged at your lips. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
With a sharp inhale, you let your quirk surge to full power. The air around you shimmered, and the hallway was bathed in a flickering, glow.
If Moretti thought his men could stop you, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.
The guard didn’t hesitate, lunging toward you with surprising speed. You ducked under his swing, the massive fist grazing your shoulder before smashing into the wall behind you, cracking the concrete.
“You’re persistent,” you muttered, spinning away and aiming a focused blast of energy at his chest. The jolt forced him back a step, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he grinned—a feral, teeth-baring grin.
“Got some bite, huh? Let’s see how long you last.”
He charged again, faster this time. You dodged to the side, rolling into a crouch and sweeping your leg to knock him off balance. He stumbled, his bulk making him difficult to topple completely, but you weren’t giving up.
“Stay down!” you shouted, sending another burst at his arm. The crackling energy wrapped around him, making his muscles seize. His grip on his weapon slipped, and the gun clattered to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, you kicked it far out of reach.
The guard growled, clearly unwilling to back down. But before he could lunge again, a familiar explosion echoed down the hall. Smoke and debris flew into the air, and a moment later, Bakugo came charging through the wreckage, crimson eyes blazing with fury.
“MOVE!” Bakugo’s shout rang out, and you hit the ground instinctively, rolling to the opposite side of the hall just as a deafening explosion erupted. The blast sent the guard hurtling into the office door with a sickening crunch, the impact cracking the wooden frame.
“Fuck, are you good?” Bakugo was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face as his crimson eyes scanned you for injuries, his breathing ragged from the fight.
You pushed him slightly away, though your hand lingered on his wrist, grounding yourself in his presence. “I’m fine,” you assured him quickly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “Where’s Moretti?”
Bakugo shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know. He bolted as soon as the alarms started blaring.”
“Damn it,” you hissed, clenching your fists. You closed your eyes, trying to focus, to extend your senses outward. “I can’t feel him. Usually, I’d be able to track his presence, but there’s too much interference in the building. Too many people, too much chaos.”
Bakugo growled under his breath, his frustration as palpable as your own.
“One of Moretti's men told me he was staying at a motel,” you said, your voice low as you motioned for Bakugo to follow you.
“This definitely ain’t a motel, sweetheart,” Bakugo muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as his sharp eyes darted around, scanning for any incoming threats.
“Yeah, no shit,” you shot back, rolling your eyes before a thought struck you. “Wait—you weren’t blindfolded when they brought you in.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Bakugo replied, his voice gruff as he gestured down another hallway. “But this place is a damn maze. The only reason I found you was because of the guards. Made it real easy when they started screaming.”
You sighed, shaking your head. “Well, we need to move. Moretti knows this place like the back of his hand, and he’ll have reinforcements swarming us any second.”
Bakugo nodded, his jaw tight as he adjusted his gloves. “Tch. Let ’em come. I’ve got plenty of firepower to deal with those bastards.”
Despite the weight of the situation, his confidence sparked a faint smirk on your lips. “I don’t doubt that,” you said, your tone softening. “But we need to be smart about this. If we can get to an exit, we’ll have the advantage outside.”
“Fine,” he agreed grudgingly, though his hands twitched with impatience. “But if we run into Moretti, I’m not holding back.”
“Neither am I,” you replied, your voice firm.
The air in the building was heavy with the scent of concrete dust and smoke, every corner steeped in shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly. Your footsteps echoed faintly as you moved, your senses hyper-alert to every creak of the structure or distant voice.
Bakugo suddenly raised a hand, motioning for you to stop. He cocked his head, listening intently. “Hear that?” he murmured.
You strained your ears and caught it—a low, muffled murmur of voices coming from a corridor to your left. Your heart jumped. “Guards?”
“Most likely,” Bakugo whispered, his lips pulling into a grin that was half anticipation, half menace. “Let’s shut ’em up before they call for backup.”
You grabbed his arm, stopping him before he could rush in. “Wait. We don’t know how many there are or if they’ve got comms to Moretti. If they alert him, we’ll lose any chance of catching him off guard.”
He scowled but didn’t pull away. “Fine. Got a plan, genius?”
You nodded. “I’ll take the lead. My quirk can handle this quietly. You stay back, but if things go sideways—”
“I’m blasting the hell outta everything,” he finished with a smirk, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“Exactly,” you said, your lips quirking up for a brief second before you pushed forward.
Sliding silently along the wall, you peeked around the corner. Three guards stood clustered near a door, their weapons slung casually over their shoulders.
Drawing on your quirk, you exhaled slowly and let the power flood your senses. The world around you dimmed, leaving only the vivid threads of the guards’ presence—their heartbeat rhythms, the faint electromagnetic signals of their equipment.
One step forward. Another. The shadows seemed to ripple around you, swallowing your form as you closed the distance.
The first guard didn’t even see you coming. A quick strike to his neck dropped him silently to the floor. The second turned, his eyes widening, but you twisted his weapon out of his hands and knocked him unconscious with the butt of it in one fluid motion.
The third managed to let out a strangled gasp before Bakugo was suddenly there, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the wall. “Where’s Moretti?” Bakugo growled, his voice low and deadly.
The guard stammered, his face pale. “I—I don’t know! He’s somewhere upstairs in the west wing. Please, that’s all I know!”
Bakugo sneered and slammed him against the wall one more time for good measure before letting him crumple to the floor. He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “West wing, huh? Guess we’ve got a direction now.”
You nodded, already moving. “Let’s go. The longer we wait, the harder this gets.”
“Damn right,” Bakugo muttered, falling into step beside you. His presence was solid and reassuring, a blazing force that matched your determination.
“Shitty Hair went for backup—if he figures out where we are, they should be here soon,” Bakugo muttered, his eyes scanning the hall for any signs of movement.
“If Kirishima wanted to keep his balls, he would’ve gone straight to the place I told him to,” you shot back.
“What?” Bakugo stopped, turning to look at you.
“When we were in the car, I made him promise that if anything happened, he’d find Milly and protect her,” you explained, your voice steady.
Bakugo’s sharp crimson gaze fixed on you, a flicker of realization crossing his face. “I knew you didn’t kill her,” he muttered.
“I’m a hero, not a monster,” you replied, your tone firm but quiet.
“A hero, huh?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.
You shrugged, keeping your focus ahead. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you bring up over coffee. ‘Hey, I used to be a hero, faked my death, and took down some major villains.’ Doesn’t make for casual conversation, does it?”
“Tch.” Bakugo’s hands clenched at his sides, tiny sparks crackling in his palms. “And your quirk?”
“Nothing special.” you shot back, glancing at him over your shoulder. “And besides, my quirk’s not flashy like yours. It’s subtle. Perfect for staying under the radar—which was kind of the whole point after Moretti.”
He scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Subtle, huh? Looked plenty flashy back there when you were knocking people out left and right.”
You sighed, stopping in your tracks to face him. “Katsuki, this isn’t about my past. This is about stopping Moretti before he hurts anyone else. We can have the ‘what else haven’t you told me’ talk later, but right now, we don’t have time for this.”
His jaw worked, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then he huffed, running a hand through his ash-blond hair. “Fine. But don’t think for a second we’re done with this conversation.”
“Noted,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you turned back down the hallway.
The west wing loomed ahead, the corridors narrowing and the air growing colder. You could feel it—a sense of finality hanging thick around you. Whatever awaited in the next room, it was clear you and Bakugo would face it together, unresolved tensions and all.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit and eerily silent apart from the faint hum of electricity. Bakugo stayed close, his footsteps heavier than yours as his crimson eyes darted around, searching for any sign of an ambush. You could feel the tension radiating off him—part frustration, part adrenaline—but there wasn’t time to unpack that now.
“You said you can sense him,” Bakugo muttered, breaking the silence. “What’re you picking up?”
You stopped, closing your eyes for a moment and focusing on the energy around you. It was chaotic, scattered—a mix of fear, anger, and desperation from everyone in the building. But there, buried beneath it all, was a faint, unmistakable pulse.
“He’s close,” you said, your voice low. “Two floors down, east wing. He’s not alone.”
Bakugo grinned, the kind of feral, dangerous grin that made villains tremble. “Good. The bastard won’t know what hit him.”
As you moved toward the nearest stairwell, you caught a glimpse of motion in the shadows ahead. Without hesitation, you grabbed Bakugo’s arm and yanked him back just as a barrage of bullets ricocheted off the walls.
“Shit!” Bakugo hissed, throwing up his hands and sending a concussive blast toward the shooter. The explosion rocked the corridor, and when the smoke cleared, the guard was sprawled unconscious on the floor.
“That was reckless,” you muttered, already moving to secure the guard’s weapon.
“Worked, didn’t it?” Bakugo shot back, his tone dripping with defiance.
Rolling your eyes, you pressed on, your senses sharp and your quirk humming faintly under your skin. More guards appeared as you descended the stairs, but Bakugo’s explosions and your precision made quick work of them. The two of you moved like a well-oiled machine—despite the unresolved tension, your instincts as fighters meshed seamlessly.
By the time you reached the east wing, the air felt heavier, charged with something darker. Moretti was close—you could feel his presence like a storm on the horizon.
Bakugo glanced at you, his fiery gaze meeting yours. “This is it. You ready?”
You nodded, your jaw set. “I’ve been ready for years.”
He smirked, stepping ahead and cracking his knuckles. “Then let’s end this.”
---
TAGLIST: @emmaafinchh@faetoraa@iissza@theasgardianmexican@cax-per
@nombakugoswife1
Why are my eyes sweating
— I’ll be home for Christmas
it's the annual friend circle christmas party, hosted at kirishima and mina's apartment. the only downside? your boyfriend, bakugo, is stationed overseas for hero work, so this year, you'll be celebrating through a screen. at least, that's what you're expecting.
✮ content. pro hero!bakugo + pro hero!reader. christmas magic and fluff. :) a special present for my elf @lady-lauren as part of the @pixelcafe-network secret santa exchange. ♡ ♡ ♡
✮ word count: 1.1k.
Christmas Eve, the night of a traditional Christmas dinner with all of your closest friends. A pot luck buffet, secret Santa exchange, and plenty of laughs through the night as you all reminisce over your lives. There’s just one thing that’s missing this year — Bakugo. Well, missing in person.
It was an opportunity of a lifetime, one he couldn’t turn down, no matter how much he argued against it. An esteemed agency in California was accepting applications for international transfers as part of the new “Heroes Around the World” program. It wasn’t that he wasn’t thankful, or even uninterested, but Bakugo’s biggest fear was being alone. Being away from you, especially in another country. After many nights spent hyping him up to take the chance, he accepted the offer. Before you two knew it, he was jetting off to the USA for three months.
And, unfortunately, three months turned to six.
Bakugo’s not coming home until March. The US commission was so impressed by his skillset (because why wouldn’t they be?) and wanted him to train an entire new wave of sidekicks by crafting a program to mimic Japan’s Hero protocols. You couldn’t bring yourself to be selfish and have him come home, no matter how much you missed him. So, you two made it work — 17 hour time difference be damned. Early morning voice notes, late night video calls, quick texts and even little homemade letters from time to time. Bakugo became fond of your hand written letters, especially when the paper would faintly smell of your perfume or have traces of lipstick kiss marks.
When you show up to Kirishima and Mina’s home, they welcome you with open arms, chirping how they’re happy you came and how much they’ve missed you.
Everyone starts arriving over the next hour, greeting you with warmth and love like always. It’s not long until their apartment is jam packed with all of your closest friends, shuffling around the kitchen with delicious food and drinks. Everyone shoves a present under the tree in the living room for later, truly adding a layer of joy to the atmosphere. Your heart aches softly as the night progresses, missing Bakugo’s hand on your thigh under the table or around your shoulders as you chat and laugh with everyone. The plan is to have Bakugo video call Kirishima’s phone during the secret Santa exchange, that way he’d still be included when everyone swapped presents. It’ll be 2AM for him, but he insisted it’s fine.
There’s a little pang in your chest when you look under the luminescent tree in the living room and see the one with his handwriting for Jiro. ‘To: Ears — Love: Kats’ with a skull drawn next to it. It’s endearing to see his love for your friends extend across the sea so effortlessly. Midoriya takes a seat next to you on the couch before everyone else meanders into the living room for the secret Santa exchange. His eyes gleam when they meet yours, a smile tugging on his lips and accentuating the freckles on his cheeks. “How are you doing?”
You nod and tilt your head with a soft smile of your own. “It’s nice to get out and be with friends. Being home for the holidays without Katsuki was starting to get to me.”
Midoriya’s eyes soften. “I know it’s hard. Only a few more months!” Before you get a chance to think too deeply about it, Kirishima claps his hands to get everyone to quiet down.
“Alright guys! Time to exchange presents.” He pulls out his phone and sets it on the dock by the TV, the little screen displaying a pending ‘Call’ screen. It’s not long before a familiar face appears, the room erupting in a hearty cheer.
“Bakugo!”
“Shut up, don’t all yap at once!” Bakugo grumbles with a grin on his handsome face. It seems his eyes find you in the room as you shoot him a little wave, his grin settling into a longing smile. “Kirishima, get things rollin’ before my ass falls asleep.”
The room chuckles as gifts are starting to be exchanged, anything from cute pairs of socks to video games to awkward stocking stuffers. No other presents are lining the tree skirt after a half hour of celebration, but you’re left empty handed. It’s awkward, to say the least.
“Are we missing one?” Kirishima questions with a frown. “There’s no way we left you out.”
Bakugo’s face sours on the phone screen, immediately upset that you’re excluded from the tradition. “What the hell? Someone better fess up. Don’t screw with my girl’s Christmas.” Suddenly, the video freezes and hangs up, leaving everyone silent as they turn towards you. How the hell could this happen?
“Why don’t you check the entryway?” Mina advises. “Maybe it was left there by mistake.”
You stand from the couch with defeat, sulking toward the door to double check. Who had you for secret Santa? Did they not know what to get for you, or were you truly forgotten? After a quick glance in the doorway, you come up short. Guess you won’t be getting a gift this year after all.
When you return to the living room, everyone seems to be staring at you with an apologetic look on their faces. Your head is hung low, aimlessly wandering back to the couch as you plop back down on to the plush fabric.
“No luck,” you whisper. “It’s okay, though. It’s not a big deal.”
The room is silent until someone speaks up.
“Look again.”
Wait. You know that voice.
It has you whipping your head up, looking around desperately to be sure you’re not hearing things. Like magic, Bakugo appears from behind the Christmas tree in the living room, his cheeky smirk illuminated by the bright string lights.
“Merry Christmas,” Midoriya whispers next to you, his eyes glossing over with emotion. “Sorry for tricking you!”
Before you know it, you’re launching off the couch and skipping over to Bakugo, throwing your arms around him excitedly. He picks you up, swinging around in soft circles, squeezing you tight enough to take your breath away. Once he sets you down, you pull back to look at him.
“Katsuki, how—”
Bakugo cuts you off with a kiss, cradling your face in his hands. After a moment, he releases you, all the love in your body flourishing at his touch.
“Commission gave me five days off. M’all yours,” he whispers, brushing a piece of hair out of your face. “Izuku pulled some strings to get those corporate assholes to approve it.”
You turn toward Izuku, mouthing a ‘thank you’ before burrowing your face into Bakugo’s chest. God, you’ve missed the way he smells, his warmth…everything about him.
“Okay you creeps, stop starin’ already,” Bakugo jests to the group. Everyone shouts with glee, the party continuing in full swing with the whole family together — at last.
This is a Christmas you’ll never forget.
Merry Christmas, Lauren!! I hope you enjoyed it. With much love from your secret Santa, Rei <3
@slayfics @maddietries @liluvtojineteyam
@Yoyolovesdaiki @catsoupki @purplescorpi0
@jays-adventure3 @simp-plague @napbatata
@www-marianette-org @obsessedpersona @kirishimaeijiromyman
@strwbrrykthv @hayatoseyepatch @awkwardchick87
@unriding @sylushi @darhinadadragon
-
albasarchive liked this · 1 month ago -
jynsjyjxn liked this · 1 month ago -
fuckerenyaeger liked this · 1 month ago -
mha-luvr reblogged this · 1 month ago -
cosmicaoii liked this · 1 month ago -
dogarex liked this · 1 month ago -
sleepy-ghostie liked this · 1 month ago -
bakucumsackslut liked this · 1 month ago -
thenornssurearebitches liked this · 1 month ago -
arisitalol liked this · 1 month ago -
hobojojo72 liked this · 1 month ago -
amajikisbabygirl liked this · 1 month ago -
steadypartymoneyhoagie liked this · 1 month ago -
blixlilyyy liked this · 1 month ago -
goggzzz liked this · 1 month ago -
yasssballs liked this · 1 month ago -
airplan3mod3 liked this · 1 month ago
-
lizzyneedstostudy liked this · 1 month ago -
cassimps liked this · 2 months ago -
just-a-writer-artist-person liked this · 2 months ago -
xx1charachar liked this · 2 months ago -
yourhornysister reblogged this · 2 months ago -
lisvrn liked this · 2 months ago -
yourhornysister liked this · 2 months ago
-
skylan666 liked this · 2 months ago -
shytimemachinewhispers liked this · 2 months ago -
norenmout liked this · 2 months ago -
onedaydreamerrr liked this · 2 months ago -
an-enigma-truly liked this · 2 months ago -
mivamoonlights liked this · 2 months ago -
sweatycoffeearcade liked this · 2 months ago -
kmystery liked this · 2 months ago -
alejandrapereznegron liked this · 2 months ago -
mi-amor-ys liked this · 2 months ago -
rinitoshiwif3 liked this · 2 months ago -
daddylizzzy liked this · 2 months ago -
bakugousarmpitsweat liked this · 2 months ago -
ddymarie liked this · 2 months ago -
nickibunny23 liked this · 3 months ago -
pudding-and-strawberry-milk liked this · 3 months ago -
lizardely liked this · 3 months ago -
obitosdefencelawyer liked this · 3 months ago -
nutz4nainaiiii liked this · 3 months ago -
natasha-deserved-better liked this · 3 months ago -
hiya2121 liked this · 3 months ago -
noralia20 liked this · 3 months ago -
aianna1 liked this · 3 months ago -
bonbonbytes liked this · 3 months ago -
pluto-9456 liked this · 3 months ago
